The Phantom Angel
by StarrySpark
Summary: Chelsea never knew her mother. Her father, the Opera Ghost, never told her anything. Now, as she finally learns the truth about the Opera Populaire's current prima donna, she finds herself torn between the Music of the Night and the world upstairs...
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. It would be so cool if I did, because then I'd be a genius and very rich. But I don't, so I'll just stick to writing fan fictions.

Prologue

Erik sat in his lair, thinking bitter thoughts. He hadn't eaten or slept for days. What was the point? He had nothing left to live for now.

It had been almost a year since Christine had left him, running off with that foppish viscount. Erik seethed at the very mention of Raoul's name. What did that sniveling, sorry excuse for a man have that Erik didn't? A face…that's what he had.

Erik got to his feet, wandering aimlessly around his home. He ran his fingers over the dusty keys of his organ. He hadn't played it in so long… He had given up on music. It had once been the one thing that he lived for. Now it was a distant memory, disappearing just like Christine had.

Erik pounded the organ in anger, and a terrible sound emitted from it. "Why, Christine, why?" he whispered, each word causing him enormous pain. "Why did you leave me?"

The lair was quiet again, as the ringing sound of his speech disappeared into silence…silence. Erik cursed himself for writing the stupid opera in the first place. He was sure that _Don Juan_ _Triumphant_ would win Christine's heart, but it didn't. She had gone against her Angel of Music, betrayed him in the presence of many unfeeling people. He would never forget the humiliation. How could she do that to him? He had acted on impulse, cutting loose the chandelier as a diversion. With a hollow laugh Erik wondered how many audience members he had squished.

At first, Erik thought the sound was only part of his own pain. Then he realized that it wasn't. He listened hard. Someone or something was wailing loudly, probably from the other side of the lake. Then he heard a loud _clang!_ Somebody had slammed shut the iron gate that barred one of the entrances to his lair. What on earth was going on over there? Were the employees of the _Opera Populaire _doing some spring-cleaning? Erik decided to investigate.

He rowed his gondola across the vast, glassy lake. Slipping through the shadows, Erik approached the source of the wailing sound, which was growing steadily quieter. When he reached the gate the sound had stopped altogether. The person who had been there earlier had left, but he or she had left behind a basket. Erik peered into the basket and saw the thing he least expected to be in there- a baby. He wondered which cruel, heartless person would abandon a baby down here, and how they got in in the first place. Tucked into the basket alongside the infant was an envelope, which Erik wasted no time in opening. Inside was a short note, written in handwriting that he recognized immediately.

_Dear Erik,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you this in person, but I had to sneak away and haven't much time. The infant in front of you is desperately sick, and the doctors say they can't do anything to help her. I thought you might like to see your daughter before she died. I remain your angel forever,_

_Christine_

Erik had to read the hastily written letter several times before he got the full meaning of it. _His_ daughter? What did she mean by _his_ daughter? And why had Christine abandoned the infant down there? There were much more pleasant places to die. He had thought that Christine was more caring than to leave an infant in a dark, cold place like this. And why did she write that she would remain his angel forever? They both knew it was a lie.

A little sneeze brought Erik out of his thoughts. He looked down at the pitiful bundle in the basket. The baby did indeed look sick. Erik remembered that when he was that age, he had been given a mask before any other scrap of clothing. His mother had hated him, feared him. This baby wasn't deformed in any way. She didn't deserve to be left to die in a cold, dark sewer.

Erik knelt down by the basket and looked carefully at the infant. Most people screamed and ran at the sight of his mask. The baby didn't move. _Infants don't know to be afraid of terrible masks or ugly distortions,_ Erik realized with a jolt. Maybe…

No. What was he thinking? How could he possibly raise a child? No matter what he told himself, it was humanly impossible for anyone to love him. It wasn't his business, anyway. Christine had abandoned the infant without a thought, so it obviously wasn't important to her. Erik wondered again how some people could be so heartless. Nobody had cared if he had lived or died either. _It's not your business, Erik. Don't get wrapped up in this. Love only leads to getting hurt. But Christine said that she was my daughter, not that stupid fop's. _My_ daughter…_

Erik scooped up the basket and carried it back to the gondola. He didn't know what he was doing, but he knew one thing…He couldn't let that baby die.

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A/N: So...What do you think? Please review, I would love to hear your comments. Some constructive criticism would be nice, but just don't flame me! This is my first fanfic. I promise it'll get more interesting! I just had to write an prologue for background information. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Phantom's Daughter

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. Never have, never will.

Chapter One

Chelsea sat at her desk, frowning at a piece of music. She twisted a lock of her black hair around her finger as she read. The candlelight she was reading by sputtered and died as a cold draft blew by. Groaning, Chelsea took her work somewhere else.

She was perfectly accustomed to getting around in the dark. She had lived in it for fifteen years of her life. She had never feared the dark or what could lie in it. She liked to think of herself as the mistress of darkness, although she had to admit the true master was her father. There was no doubt of that…

Chelsea sat down on a little bench and started reading through the music again. No sooner had she found the spot where she had left off than the candles around her blew out. "Darn it!" It had been happening to her all day, and she was sick and tired of it. She went back to her room and looked underneath her bed for matches. She found nothing except the dishes she was supposed to wash one night when she was six…yuck. Chelsea looked through her desk drawers, her closet, and in every nook and cranny of her room, but she couldn't find a single match.

"Father!" Chelsea yelled. She waited for a reply, but didn't get one. Sighing, she assumed he was at the organ again. Her father loved to play the organ. He was very gifted in the world of music. He could play quite a few instruments, and he also sang well. Chelsea could play a little bit on the organ and piano, but her true love was the violin. Erik had started giving her lessons when she was seven years old, and she had been playing ever since. Erik had crafted her a beautiful violin, which she kept on a special shelf in her room. It was her pride and joy.

"Father, I think we're out of matches," Chelsea announced as she approached the organ by the subterranean lake, where her father was playing loudly. She still didn't get an answer. Chelsea rolled her eyes. Her father often got so into his music that he was oblivious to all around him. There was only one way to get his attention… Chelsea reached up and slammed a few random organ keys.

Erik cringed as the horrible sound clashed with his song. He looked up at Chelsea. "What is it?" he snapped.

Chelsea jumped at his harsh tone. "Sorry to bother you," she said apologetically, "but I can't find any matches."

"So? Surely not every candle in the house has gone out," Erik grumbled, looking back at his music.

"That's exactly what's happened!" Chelsea argued. "Every candle has gone out except for the ones around the organ." The moment the words left her mouth, she felt the annoying breeze again. The candles guttered, and the flames disappeared. Chelsea and her father were plunged into total darkness.

"Darn it!" Chelsea muttered.

"Did you leave the north trapdoor open?" she heard her father ask. She could tell he was trying hard to be patient. Chelsea heard the sound of a match being struck, and a little flame appeared by her father's face. The small light illuminated his face slightly, though there were shadows covering his face, making the mask he wore look eerie. Chelsea's father wore the mask because of a bad disfigurement on one side of his face. Chelsea didn't have a problem with it, but Erik always felt the need to cover his distortion up. The mask was spooky enough to give adults nightmares. In fact, it _did_ give adults nightmares sometimes… Erik was known all around the opera house as the Opera Ghost or the Phantom of the Opera. Chelsea knew that her father threatened the managers on a daily basis, ordering them to run the opera house they way he wanted them to. Nobody dared disobey the Opera Ghost. Ever since he had dropped the old chandelier on an audience almost sixteen years ago, people had cowered at the mention of the phantom's name.

"I might have," Chelsea said, frowning. When was the last time she had used that trapdoor? "I think I used it yesterday…I must have left it open."

Erik sighed exasperatedly. "I'll go shut it."

"While you're doing that," Chelsea said tactfully, "should I go get some more matches from upstairs?"

Her father lit a candle with his burning match. "Have you practiced your violin yet today?"

"I was going to," Chelsea said, choosing her words carefully, "but none of the candles would stay lit. I was looking over that new piece." She paused for a moment. Her father said nothing. She resorted to Plan B. "Please? Please, please, please, please, please, please can I go? I won't stay long! I'll just go up, snatch some matches, take a quick peek at what everyone's up to, and then I'll come right back down! I promise I won't-"

"Go through your scales first," Erik ordered. "All of them."

Chelsea sighed and ran to her room. She picked up her violin and started to play, not bothering to tune it first. Usually she would tune her violin carefully, but she was too anxious at the moment. She went through her scales as quickly as she possibly could, finishing in approximately six minutes. She put the violin carefully back on its shelf, grabbed the first cloak she saw out of her closet, and ran back out to the lake.

"I didn't hear an E Flat scale."

Chelsea groaned and trudged back to her room. She had hoped that her father would leave while she was practicing so that she could get away without practicing that one hated scale. It seemed that Erik now officially knew all of Chelsea's tricks. She'd have to be sneakier next time…

Chelsea picked up her violin and played the scale. When she returned to the lake, Erik ordered her to go back to her room, tune her violin, and play all her scales again. Chelsea returning grudgingly to her room and did all that he told her to. She raced out to the lake once again, but had to return to her room to put her violin and her bow in their case and stow the case carefully under her bed. Only then did her father allow her to leave. But first she had to endure a long lecture from Erik about how "if you do things right the first time you won't have to go back and fix your mistakes later."

Chelsea eagerly punted the gondola along the canal with the long pole. Erik had only started letting her go out on the boat alone three years ago because she hadn't been big enough. There had been quite a few funny incidents in Chelsea's life when she had tried to steer the boat but had ended up vaulting herself forty feet across the lake.

Chelsea reached the end of the waterway and sprang out of the boat. She hurried through the secret tunnels and passageways, alert for any signs of life. She climbed up a few ladders, ascended a small staircase, and walked along a long, dark corridor that seemed to go on forever. About halfway down the passageway Chelsea realized she had forgotten where the hidden trapdoor was.

"Was it sixteen steps forward or six steps forward?" Chelsea mumbled to herself. "Or was it twenty-six? Or was it- AAAAAAAAAAHHH!"

Chelsea fell through the trapdoor and landed hard on the floor of the ballet dormitory. "Ouch! So it _was_ sixteen steps…" Luckily for her, the room was empty. All the ballet girls seemed to be at rehearsal. Chelsea picked herself off the ground and looked up at the ceiling. She never stopped marveling at how well that trapdoor was hidden. It only opened one way, and it seemed to melt into the ceiling.

Chelsea began searching for matches. If there was one place in the opera house that she was certain to find matches, it was the ballet dormitory. The girls who inhabited this room were almost fonder of candles than the Opera Ghost was…almost. She had just found an enormous pile of matchbooks when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs outside the room. Oh no! Chelsea jumped and tried to find a place to hide, but before she could move an inch the door burst open. A girl of about fifteen ran in, saw her, and gasped.

"Oh mon dieu!" she screamed.

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A/N: Run, Chelsea, run! I hate cliffhangers, don't you? I'll try to update as soon as possible, but it might take a while. Sometimes I think teachers assign homework just to torture us. The story may seem a little boring, but just give me a chance to get it started. I've got big plans for it…(laughs evilly) Please review! Please, please, please, please, please review! No flames! Constructive criticism would be appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	3. Rehearsals

Disclaimer: I still don't own the Phantom of the Opera. I probably never will. Poor me.

Chapter Two

"Oh my gosh!" the girl cried. She ran into the room and enveloped Chelsea in an enormous, bone-breaking hug. "Where in the world have you been? Do you realize you've been gone for two weeks?"

Actually, Chelsea hadn't realized that. She often lost track of time down there. She hugged the girl back, thinking fast of possible lies.

"Belle!" she groaned. "You're crushing my ribs!" Her voice took on a happier attitude. "Sorry I was gone so long! My father decided to take a sudden vacation to Italy, and I never found the time to write."

Belle LeSeverest stepped back, pretending to look hurt. She tilted her head to one side and whimpered, "You couldn't find even a little time to write to your best friend and let her know you were alive?"

"Did you actually think I was dead?" Chelsea laughed. She pushed Belle playfully. "Come on, Belle! This is _me _we're talking about. I couldn't possibly die while on a trip to Italy!"

"I couldn't help but be worried," Belle said, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear. She looked at Chelsea with wide brown eyes. "You just disappeared without a trace!"

"I do that sometimes," Chelsea said, shrugging off the matter as though it were unimportant. She wanted to distract Belle. Her best friend didn't actually know that she lived underneath the opera house with the Phantom of the Opera. She let Belle believe that she lived out in the countryside with a strict father who would never let her have guests over. Chelsea wasn't about to let Belle know who she really was.

"Belle!" a harsh voice called from the bottom of the staircase. "How long does it take to put on a pair of ballet slippers?"

Belle rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry, Madame Giry!" she called, leaning out the door. "Chelsea's back!"

Chelsea joined her friend at the threshold. "Hello, Madame!" she called to the aging ballet mistress. "Sorry I was gone for so long."

"She went on a vacation to Italy!" Belle informed the old woman.

"Italy, eh?" Madame Giry asked, leaning on her cane. She gave Chelsea an annoyed look. "How was it?"

"Umm…" Chelsea said, wavering under Madame Giry's stare. The old ballet mistress knew all about herself and Erik. She, supposedly, was the one who had brought the Opera Ghost here to live in the first place. For a long time Erik and Madame Giry had not been on good terms. Madame Giry was angry with Erik for squashing an audience with a very expensive chandelier, and Erik was furious at Madame Giry for… _Actually_, Chelsea thought, _he never told me why he was angry with her…how strange._

"Never mind!" Madame Giry interrupted with a wave of her hand. "Just change and get downstairs for rehearsal."

"But-" Chelsea began.

"NOW!" Madame Giry barked. Chelsea jumped. Madame Giry might have been old, but she certainly had a fiery temper. Chelsea would just have to explain to Erik later that she had to go to rehearsal…he would be pretty angry. Chelsea wondered who was the scariest when they were angry. She decided it was definitely Madame Giry!

Fifteen minutes later, Chelsea was on the stage, dressed in a leotard. She stretched next to Belle while Madame Giry told the _corps de ballet_ about the next opera they would be performing. Chelsea recognized the name of the opera, but she couldn't remember what it was about. She had been to many operas in her lifetime. She and Erik would watch them from Box 5, which was always left empty for them, due to Erik's daily threatening of the managers. The first opera she had ever been to see was _Faust_. Chelsea smiled as she remembered. Erik had taken her to see the opera for a treat on her sixth birthday. From that moment on she had been obsessed with the opera house's productions. She would persuade Erik to take her upstairs so she could watch the performers rehearse. She would sit in the shadows, not making a sound, watching for hours at a time. Seven years after her first opera, Chelsea sneaked away from the lair and joined the ballet. Instead of watching them perform, now Chelsea could work with the actors. Of course, Erik had found out later, and boy, was he mad! But in the end, he had said Chelsea could be in the chorus/ballet as long as it didn't interfere with her violin practice.

"Chelsea! Are you paying attention?"

Chelsea jumped. "Um, yes, Madame Giry!"

"Then what did I just say?" the ballet mistress asked, glaring at her.

"Ummmmmm," Chelsea said, thinking fast. "You said, 'Chelsea! Are you paying attention?'"

The girls snickered. Madame Giry looked like she wanted to slap Chelsea. "I meant _before_ that! When you were daydreaming!"

"I wasn't daydreaming," Chelsea argued. "I was paying strict attention. Sometimes when I'm paying strict attention I get this dreamy look in my eyes that makes me look like I'm daydreaming, but I'm really not!"

"Then what did I just say?" Madame Giry growled.

"I- um- Oh, Madame Giry!" Chelsea groaned, out of ideas. "I bet everyone in this room's forgotten what you were talking about by now."

"I haven't," Madame Giry said coolly. "Chelsea, you force me to believe that you weren't paying attention."

"I _was_ paying attention!" Chelsea insisted.

Behind Madame Giry, a stagehand had climbed onto a chair and started waving a big poster. He pointed at it and mouthed, "Read it!"

"Madame Giry, if I remember correctly you were talking about this being the twentieth time _Faust_ has been shown at the Opera Populaire," Chelsea said, putting the advertisement on the poster into her own words. "And I think you were saying something about important people being here so we had better not mess up and tarnish the gold reputation of this opera house's noble ballet," she added, remembering what Madame Giry said before every single performance.

The _corps de ballet_ started cheering, for they all knew that Chelsea hadn't really been paying attention and were amazed that she could get herself out of such a tight spot. Madame Giry merely closed her eyes for a long moment and then starting teaching the girls their new routine. While she wasn't looking Chelsea sneaked off the stage and into the left wing.

"Oof!" she yelped as she smacked into someone and tumbled to the floor.

"Mademoiselle Chelsea! You're back."

"Monsieur James…you're still here."

The stagehand that had helped her earlier pulled her to her feet. James was another close friend of Chelsea's. "Are you unhappy to see me, mademoiselle?" he asked, grinning.

"Certainly not, kind monsieur," Chelsea laughed. "You must forgive my manners. I was merely surprised that your father had not apprenticed you to a blacksmith yet. I recall you saying he was going to."

"Indeed I did," James said, inclining his head slightly. "However, my father is rather busy at the moment, as my energetic grandfather just moved in with us. I daresay he's forgotten about the apprenticeship by now."

"I'm happy to hear that you'll continue to work with us," Chelsea said. "And thank you very much for your assistance earlier. Your timing was impeccable."

"Anything for you," James chuckled. "And now I wonder if I could ask a favor of you, Mademoiselle Chelsea?"

"And what would that favor be, Monsieur James?"

"Can we _please_ drop this English-accent, over-polite, tea time talk? It's really starting to annoy me!" James said.

"Of course," Chelsea giggled. "It was annoying me, too!"

James was a good-natured, humorous boy of around sixteen. He had been working at the Opera Populaire as a stagehand since he was ten years old, and he was famous around the opera house for his hilarious impressions of Madame Giry. He had been orphaned at a young age and brought up by a strict man who disliked the opera house. James had never known his last name, so he had something in common with Chelsea, who never had a last name. They had always addressed each other as "Monsieur James" or "Mademoiselle Chelsea" as a sort of nickname.

"What are you doing back here, Chelsea?" Belle whispered as she tiptoed through the left wing. "If Madame Giry finds you-"

"I'll get my toes fried, James will get fired, and you'll get kicked out," Chelsea interrupted. "Yes, Belle, I know! Madame Giry has threatened me so many times that I've even noticed a pattern in her threats."

"You have?" James and Belle asked at the same time.

"Yeah," Chelsea said. "If it's just something small, like whispering while she's talking, I get the old "clean-the-stage-using-your-head-as-a-mop" threat. If I do something big, like walk in paint and then dance all over the stage, I get the "tie-your-ballet-slippers-to-the-catwalks-and-let-the-Opera-Ghost-find-you-hanging-there" threat. If I do something really big on Thursdays, like letting a horde of rats loose in the dressing rooms, she'll threaten to chop off my ears and throw them in that night's soup."

Belle shuddered. "How terrible."

"Oh, knock it off!" Chelsea groaned. "You know she doesn't actually mean that stuff! She would never dare to tie us to the catwalks as Opera Ghost fodder."

"You have no idea what she dares to do," a voice from behind them said. They turned to see Meg Giry, the best ballerina in the opera house and her friend, Christine De Chagny, the current prima donna.

"I suppose you never heard of the time my mother actually hung someone up there?" Meg asked, her eyebrows raised. "The Opera Ghost actually found them…you could hear the screams from the ballet dormitory."

"You believe in the Phantom of the Opera?" James asked, unable to keep from smiling.

"You don't?" Meg challenged.

Chelsea snorted. "Puh-lease," she scoffed. "The Opera Ghost doesn't exist! He's just the figment of some drunk stagehand's imagination."

The two ladies swapped a mysterious glance.

"The Opera Ghost _does_ exist," Christine said softly, her expression unreadable. "He _did_, anyway. Now it's impossible to tell if it's him who's threatening the managers or if it's just some joke."

"What do you know about the Opera Ghost?" Belle asked the two women, who immediately shared another mysterious glance.

"We know he reigned here long before either of us were born," Meg said.

"And that he dropped a chandelier on the audience one night, during the presentation of _Don Juan Triumphant!_" Christine said, looking around as if she felt she was being watched. "He wrote _Don Juan_ himself, and then appeared in it as the star."

"Really?" Chelsea asked, frowning. "I never knew that…"

"I thought you didn't believe in the Opera Ghost," Meg said, raising her eyebrows again.

"I don't!" Chelsea snapped. "I'd just…never heard that part of the story before."

"What are you doing back here?" a small, timid voice asked. They all turned to see Mitsy and Lissy, the two youngest ballet girls, creeping toward them. "If Madame Giry finds you you'll be in big trouble!"

"For crying out loud!" James groaned. "Is _everybody_ skipping rehearsal today?"

"You should all go back before she finds out!" little Lissy advised, her brown eyes wide open. "I bet she'll be really angry if she finds you."

"Oh, please," Meg scoffed. "What is she going to do?"

"WHO'S TALKING BACK THERE?" They all jumped as Madame Giry's voice boomed into the left wing. "YOU'RE DISTURBING THE REHEARSAL!"

"She's coming!" Meg yelped. "Scram!"

There was a sudden burst of activity as everybody tried to get away. Three unlucky teenagers were unable to escape in time. Unluckily for two of them, only one had a plausible excuse for being in the wing during rehearsal…

----

"This sucks," Chelsea grumbled.

"Nice language," Belle hissed.

"I'm sorry!" Chelsea whined. "I'm in a terrible mood and an uncomfortable position!"

"Ugh…I think all the blood's rushing to my head," Belle groaned.

"I never thought she would actually tie us to the catwalks by our ballet slippers," Chelsea moaned, looking down at the ballet girls below. "I thought she was just joking!"

"Haven't you learned by now that Madame Giry never jokes?" Belle asked wearily. "I've been here since I was eight, and I don't have the luxury of being able to go home at night."

Chelsea remembered how Belle had lost both of her parents at a young age and had come to live at the opera house. "Wow…sucks to be you."

"Once again- nice language!"

"Shut up, Belle."

"I refuse to."

"Hello, mademoiselles," James said as he strode across the catwalks. "Fine day, isn't it?"

"Wipe that stupid grin off your face, James," Chelsea growled.

"Temper, temper, Mademoiselle Chelsea," James laughed. "It'll get you into trouble one of these days."

"When I get down from this thing," Chelsea began, "I swear I'm going to come back up and-"

"Shush!" Belle hissed. "Not so loud!"

"Why not?" Chelsea whispered. To her annoyance, she started to sway slightly.

"The Opera Ghost will hear," Belle said, looking around as if she expected the ghost to appear out of thin air and start strangling her.

"Meg only made that story up to scare you," Chelsea grumbled, now swaying even more. "The Phantom of the Opera doesn't go around strangling ballet rats just for the fun of it. That's what stagehands are for."

"Gee, thanks, Chelsea," James grumbled.

"You're welcome, James. For goodness sake, stop swinging my rope! I'm starting to get seasick!"

"Stop yelling, Chelsea! The Opera Ghost will hear!" Belle screamed.

"Well, if he didn't hear me he definitely heard you!"

"Will you two stop bickering?"

"No! Not until Chelsea realizes that we're all in mortal danger!"

"I won't stop until Belle realizes that she's being a childish crybaby!"

"Oh, so that's what you think of me?"

"Yes, Belle, that's what I think of you."

"Don't be smart with me! You're the one who-"

THUMP! BANG! SMASH!

"What the heck was that?" James muttered, staring around wildly.

"He's here- the Phantom of the Opera!" Belle screamed.

"Belle, SHUT UP!" Chelsea roared. "If that was the Phantom of the Opera, then I'm about to be chosen as Christine De Chagny's new understudy!"

A loud creaking noise close by made them all jump. James' hand flew to the level of his eye.

"Can you see anything?" Belle cried, looking around from behind her fingers.

"No, I can't see anything," James said quietly, surveying the catwalks suspiciously. "I can't shake off the feeling that I'm being watched, though…"

"Belle, calm down. It's okay," Chelsea whispered to her friend, who was starting to hyperventilate.

Another creaking noise made them all yelp in surprise. Below them, the rehearsal had stopped. Everybody was staring upward, and all the ballet girls were crowded around Madame Giry.

"It's him- the Opera Ghost!" Belle whispered, tears streaming from her eyes. "He's here, I know it!"

"I think it's okay," James said, looking around again. "I don't think…" He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide in fear. "HOLY SHITTAKE MUSHROOMS!"

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A/N: (Hums the Overture, smiling evilly) Duuuuuun, dun, dun, dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuuuun… I hate reading cliffhangers, but I sure am having a lot of fun writing them! ; ) Thanks go out to my two reviewers- you guys rock! Please review! Tell me what you think of Belle and James…should I kill them off? Just kidding- they're important characters! I'll try to update ASAP…might take a while. The Olympics are on, after all! Thanks for reading!


	4. The Opera Ghost!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or any of the music. I wish I did, but I don't.

Chapter Three

"It _is_ the Phantom of the Opera!" Belle shrieked.

The tall, hooded figure strode across the catwalks to where James was standing and Belle and Chelsea were hanging. Chelsea's neck hurt from looking up. _This can't be good,_ she thought.

The phantom stared menacingly at James, who backed away, his hand still at the level of his eyes. Erik looked down at the two hanging ballet girls and gave Chelsea a look that seemed to say, "I don't even _want_ to know how you got in this position." All Chelsea could offer was a tiny shrug that she hoped no one noticed.

Erik looked down at the halted rehearsals below and pulled an envelope out of his pocket. As it fluttered to the stage below, Chelsea saw that it was sealed with a red wax skull. The phantom walked closer to James, who backed away, but not quickly enough. The phantom was in his face…

"Boo!" he whispered. James squeaked. If Chelsea hadn't been focusing on pretending to be scared, she would have laughed out loud. Erik turned on his heel and walked back across the catwalks, disappearing into the shadows from whence he came.

"Madame Giry!" Belle shouted. "What does the letter say?"

"Does it say anything about letting us down before our brains fall out of our ears?" Chelsea asked.

Madame Giry read the letter, her face turning gray. She looked up. "James, let them down! Quickly!"

"I told you he wasn't going to strangle us," Chelsea whispered to Belle. "See? He actually helped us!"

"This time!" Belle hissed. "I bet we won't be so lucky next- AAAAAAAAH!"

"AIIIEEEEEE!" Chelsea shrieked.

Both girls tumbled to the ground as James cut through the ropes holding their ballet slippers to the catwalks. James had had the forethought to put a few pillows on the stage, but he had intentionally put the pillows about a foot away from the crash sight.

"Oh, James!" Chelsea groaned, picking herself off the floor. That was the second time today she had fallen from a great height! "That wasn't funny!"

"Well, Madame Giry said I had to do it quickly," James laughed, "so I let you down as quickly as possible!" As an afterthought, he added, "And it _was_ funny."

"It was not!" Belle cried.

"I thought it was funny," little Mitsy piped up. Chelsea sent her a murderous glare.

"Nobody cares about us ballet rats," Belle grumbled as she pulled herself to her feet. "We're disposable, apparently."

"It's better to be a ballet girl than a stagehand," James assured her as he helped Chelsea up. "That was a one-time thing for you, but stagehands are always prey to the Opera Ghost."

"That reminds me," Chelsea said thoughtfully as she straightened her hair. "A tall, black-cloaked figure wearing a mask strides across the catwalks toward you with a Punjab lasso in his hands, and all you can think of to say is, 'Holy shittake mushrooms?'"

James shrugged.

"I could think of many things stronger than that to say," Chelsea said, shaking her head at him.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"

"Like that, for example."

The person who had shouted was Richard Firmin, co-manager of the Opera Populaire. He burst through the doors and strode angrily up to the stage, yelling all sorts of dreadful things. Behind him came his partner, Giles Andre, who, at the moment, only had half a mustache.

"It was the Opera Ghost, monsieur," Madame Giry answered blandly. She had never really liked the two managers. "He interrupted our rehearsal."

"We've got six weeks until _Faust_ starts! We can't have all these interruptions!" Andre grumbled. "What did he want?"

"He requested that I let down two ballet girls who were hanging from the catwalks,"

Madame Giry replied very calmly.

"And why, may I ask, were two ballet girls hanging from the catwalks?" Firmin snarled.

"They needed to be punished," Madame Giry replied, examining her fingernails.

"Which two girls caused the trouble?" Firmin asked, looking around. The ballet girls pushed Belle and Chelsea out of the crowd. Firmin's temper got worse. "I should have known that you would be mixed up in all this, Miss My-Father-Is-A-Wealthy-Patron-So-I-Can-Do-Whatever-I-Want!"

Chelsea smiled charmingly and curtsied. "Bonjour, Monsieur manager!"

"Don't try and charm your way out of this!" Firmin shouted. Chelsea's smile faltered, then faded completely.

"You ballet girls are nothing but trouble!" Andre complained. "All you do is make life difficult for your superiors. We ought to cast you all out into the street like the rats that you are!"

Chelsea's face burned red. Beside her, Belle gasped.

"This is a disgrace! To think that we can't trust two ladies of your age to behave…" Firmin ranted. "I want the entire _corps de ballet_ to get down on their hands and knees and scrub this stage until it shines! Rehearsal is cancelled! Scrub! Now!"

Madame Giry handed Meg the key to the janitor's closet with a triumphant smile. The managers went back to their office. The ballet rats got to work.

"It's not fair!" Meg grumbled. "You got us all into trouble!"

"You should have been hanging up there with us!" Chelsea retorted.

"You know she's right, Meg," Christine said as she walked across the stage. "You were at fault, too."

Meg looked up and sent her friend a scathing glare. "You were, too!" She scrubbed the stage so hard that the paint started coming off. "I bet you're just loving this, aren't you?"

Christine paused, pretending to look uncertain. "It would be unladylike to say so," she said, "but then again, it would also be unladylike to lie."

Chelsea and Belle giggled.

"I need a new job," Meg grumbled. "One that doesn't include washing things! Where are you going, anyway, all dressed up like that?" she asked, looking at Christine jealously.

"Raoul's taking me out to lunch," Christine said, smiling almost sheepishly. "I'd better go or I'll be late." She walked away.

"Don't tell her I said this," Chelsea said quietly, "but I hate the vicomte with a passion."

"Why?" Meg and Belle asked together, very surprised.

Chelsea paused, thinking. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I really don't know! It's just…_something_ about him. My father doesn't like him, either. Don't ask me why; I don't know."

"Why don't you ask him?" Belle asked.

"I have," Chelsea assured her. "Many times. He won't tell me. He always changes the subject or sends me to my room or something." She continued scrubbing.

"Sounds mysterious," Belle said. "What do you think, Meg? Meg? I'm talking to you, Meg!"

Meg looked up. "Mysterious? Oh, yeah, sure," she said quickly. "Uh…listen, I have to go speak to the managers about something. I'll see you later." She stood up and ran away.

"Think she knows something?" Chelsea muttered.

"Without a doubt," Belle replied.

---

"The young girl stood silently, her chocolate brown eyes closed as she listened to the rhythm of the world around her. Brown hair cascaded down her back and fluttered slightly in the wind. The girl took a deep breath, and leaped across the chasm, her long legs stretched in front of and behind her. Her petite feet touched the ground, and she-"

"Belle? Do us all a favor and shut up," Chelsea groaned. She had been listening to Belle ramble on about herself in a poetic fashion for an hour now. The two girls had been made to stay and help the night crew clean the stage further and do all those other things that stagehands do. The night crew consisted of one person: the unfortunate James.

"Chelsea sat at the piano and tuned it carefully, her porcelain face solemn. Her clear blue eyes would blink every now and then. The brilliant shade of blue matched well with her long hair, which was as black as midnight itself…"

"How am I supposed to 'tune it carefully' if you keep talking like that?" Chelsea grumbled. She glared at Belle, who took no notice. "And you make me sound so poetic! Stop it. I don't look _that_ nice!"

"Yes, you do," James said from around a large pile of assorted props. "She was right about the 'porcelain face' and 'brilliant shade of blue' parts, anyway."

"Oh, really?" Chelsea asked, raising her eyebrow.

"The young man blushed and carried on with his work, sweat dripping from his dark brown hair. He went about his jobs quickly and efficiently, his brown eyes soft and thoughtful. Every now and then he would turn to look at the beautiful girl at the piano, who shyly glanced up and- Hey! Put…me…DOWN!"

"No!" James grunted. He and Chelsea had each grabbed one of Belle's elbows and lifted her off the stage. They carried her to the edge and tossed her, screaming, across the orchestra pit and into the velvet seats.

"I was not 'turning to look at the beautiful girl at the piano!'" James mimicked. "I was cringing and looking back because a particular note sounded really flat!"

"And I was glancing up at him because he seemed to be criticizing my work and I wanted to remind him that he couldn't do any better!" Chelsea defended herself. "Write a book, Belle! Please don't torture us with your poetic ramblings!"

"I was only telling the truth," Belle said simply.

Chelsea rolled her eyes and turned away. "Whatever." She stifled a big yawn behind her hand. "What time is it, anyway?"

James took his watch out of his pocket. "Quarter to twelve."

"WHAT?" Chelsea yelped. "I have to go! I'm so sorry to leave you like this, but I promised my father I'd be home hours ago!"

"No problem." Belle waved the problem away with a flick of her hand.

"Wait a second- You're leaving me here alone with Poet Girl? That's not fair!" James complained.

"Sorry, James. You're just going to have to deal with her," Chelsea giggled. "I'll see you guys tomorrow, maybe." She ran through the left wing and into one of the Opera Populaire's many hallways. She walked along until she arrived at the door to Christine's dressing room. She had seen Christine leave hours ago, but she still listened for a moment at the keyhole to make sure nobody was inside. Chelsea closed the door behind her as she entered and then strode across the room to the big mirror.

"Let's see…how does this thing work?" Chelsea mused. It had been a long time since she had used this passageway. She looked around for a switch or lever, but didn't find one. Huffing in frustration, she leaned against the mirror, which immediately opened. Chelsea fell with a squeak and lay sprawled on the musty floor. She picked herself off the ground and closed the mirror. She grabbed a candle from one of the many candelabras lining the wall. Hot wax dripped onto her fingers, but she tried to ignore the pain. This was the fastest way down to the lair, but it was also the darkest route. After climbing down several winding staircases she reached the subterranean lake. The boat was right where she had left it. She rowed herself back to Erik's lair, almost falling asleep in the process.

When she reached the shore, Chelsea found that her father wasn't there. She hurried off to her room, changed quickly into a nightgown and catapulted into bed, hearing footsteps approach. Her door opened and Erik walked in. Chelsea pretended to be asleep.

"I know you're awake."

Chelsea sighed and sat up.

"Where have you been?" Erik demanded. "You told me almost eighteen hours ago that you wouldn't be down there too long! What happened?"

"I got into a spot of trouble with Madame Giry," Chelsea said quietly, not looking at her father. It was dark, but she could tell that Erik was livid.

"Am I to assume that that's how you got tied up to the catwalks?" Erik asked through gritted teeth. Chelsea said nothing. Erik went on. "I can't keep getting you out of trouble, Chelsea! You shouldn't go gallivanting around like you own the place. You're fifteen, almost sixteen. You should know better than to do things like this."

"I only wanted to see my friend," Chelsea mumbled.

Erik sighed. "Chelsea…you're giving me gray hair."

"Really?"

"_Yes_, really. You need to stop drawing so much attention to yourself," Erik told her. "If you let your secret slip you won't be able to have a social life."

"I know," Chelsea whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Try and blend in more," Erik advised.

"Okay," Chelsea yawned.

"A little tired, there?"

"Only a little," Chelsea said, laughing weakly.

"Get some sleep, then," Erik ordered. He turned toward the door. "Oh, Chelsea? Did you get those matches?"

Chelsea gasped and smacked her forehead. "Darn it!"

---

Morning found Chelsea standing in the rafters of the opera house, watching rehearsals on the stage far below her. She was wearing a dark cape, which she had borrowed from Erik. She clutched an envelope in her hand. Inside that envelope was a letter from the Opera Ghost. Chelsea had actually written it herself, but she written it in her father's handwriting and signed it "O.G." Below, the managers were shouting at the ballet girls again because they kept forgetting the routine. Chelsea was glad she had written something in the letter about managers belonging in an office, not on the stage. She decided now was the perfect time to deliver her note. Balancing on the narrow beam, she tossed the letter out over the stage. It landed on Firmin's head. Chelsea smiled to herself as the _corps de ballet_ started freaking out.

"Having fun?" Chelsea looked up and saw Erik striding across the beam toward her.

"A little bit," Chelsea admitted. "What are you doing up here?"

"I was looking for my cape," Erik told her, leaning against another beam. "When I discovered it was missing my first thought was that a certain pretty little girl must have borrowed it. Then I thought that it was probably just you."

"Hey!" Chelsea whined.

"Might I have it back now?" Erik asked, holding out his hand. "I need it for some…business."

Chelsea took off the cape and returned it to her father.

"Thank you," he said, turning to leave. Then he turned back to Chelsea and said, "And I would also appreciate if you stopped foraging my signature. Get your own ghost identity!" He walked off and disappeared into the shadows.

Chelsea leaned against a beam, looking down at the frightened people below. "My own ghost identity," she murmured. "Now there's an idea…

------------

A/N: …

(StarrySpark is unavailable for comment because she is trying to fend off the mob of angry phangirls who have found their way to her home and are attempting to Punjab her because she gave Erik gray hair.)

(In a desperate attempt to save herself, StarrySpark grabbed her laptop and jumped out her bedroom window.)

Jeez, those phangirls are nasty! They're almost better with a Punjab lasso than the Opera Ghost is! I know this chapter was long and probably rather tedious, but it was necessary. I refrained from writing another cliffhanger because cliffhangers stink. Thanks, ChelseaSkywalker, for the gray hair idea. It fit the story pretty well, but it isn't working too well for me. I can hear the phangirls coming, so I'll be blunt. Read. Review. Please. I'll update as soon as I can. Thanks for reading!


	5. The Phantom Angel

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. Heck, until Tuesday I didn't even own a copy of the movie. Andrew Lloyd Webber is a very lucky man, indeed.

Chapter Four

"Ouch! That was my foot!"

"Sorry."

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"_That!_"

Mitsy and Lissy had been wandering around in the dark cellars for hours. They were lost. Very lost.

"This is all your fault!" Lissy whimpered. "If you had just stayed up in the dormitory like you were supposed to, neither of us would be in this mess!"

"It's not my fault!" Mitsy argued. "I didn't _ask_ you to follow me!"

"It is too your fault!" Lissy retorted. "You started it! And now, because of you, I'm going to die at the age of seven!"

"What makes you so sure you're going to die?" Mitsy asked.

"We've been lost down here for hours, and now our candle is dying!" Lissy informed her. "And you know who's probably following us?"

"Who?"

"_The Opera Ghost!_"

"Don't say that!" Mitsy squeaked.

"It's the truth!" Lissy said. "We've made so much noise that he must know we're here."

"Oh, why didn't I listen when Madame Giry told us not to come down here?" Mitsy wailed.

"Because you thought she was a raving lunatic," Lissy told her. "Hey…what's that?"

The girls came upon an enormous lake. They couldn't see what lay beyond it because green, swirling mist covered the lake.

"Let's go…" Lissy whispered, her eyes wide. "Let's go. Now!" She grabbed Mitsy by the hand and raced off in the direction they came from. Mitsy dropped their candle and the girls were plunged into total darkness, but they didn't stop running.

"Why are we running?" Mitsy gasped.

"The ghost!" Lissy yelled back. "They say the Phantom of the Opera lives across a subterranean lake in the bowels of the opera house!"

"Who told you-" Mitsy started, but Lissy tripped and fell to the ground with a squeak. She dragged Mitsy down with her. The two girls groped around until they found each other's hands. They stood up to start running again, but found they couldn't see where to go. They felt around for the wall, but couldn't find one. They collapsed on the dirty ground, crying that they were done for.

"Come on, girls, get up."

Mitsy and Lissy screamed and scrambled off in separated directions. They didn't get far. Someone or something grabbed them.

"Wait! Don't go anywhere," their captor ordered. It sounded like a female voice. The two girls relaxed slightly, and the person let them go. A second later, they heard the sound of a match being struck, and a tiny flame appeared in the darkness. The person lit a candle, and the passageway was illuminated. "There. That's better!"

Mitsy and Lissy stepped away, their eyes wide. "It's her!" they gasped.

"Who?" their captor asked. The first thing the little girls noticed about her was that her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue. They couldn't see her entire face because she wore a white leather mask that covered part of it. The mask was finer than anything worn at a masquerade. It was decorated with what looked like silver and gold stardust. The girl wore a pristine white dress. Her skirts were about an inch off the floor, and they looked to be the puffy kind that flounced when you walked and fanned out when you spun in circles. Over her shoulders the girl wore a velvet cloak of midnight blue. Her black hair was tied back with a white ribbon. There was no mistaking this figure…

"You're the one who's been helping the ballet girls!" Mitsy cried.

"You saved Elsie when she was stuck on the catwalks!" Lissie squeaked.

"You played the violin that night when it stormed!" Mitsy whispered. "You drowned out the thunder!"

"You saved that stagehand from the Opera Ghost!" Lissie said. "Do you know the Phantom?"

"Yes, I know the Phantom," the girl replied quietly. The two girls noticed that there was something entrancing about her voice, something that made all their fears go away. The girl handed the candlestick to Lissy and took the girls' hands. She set off into the vast labyrinth confidently. "He doesn't scare me. Perhaps it's because there's something rather ghostly about myself…"

"Are you a ghost?" Mitsy gasped. Her only reply was a raised eyebrow.

"You look like an angel," Lissy said, trying to suck up. She got the same response.

"Why are you two roaming the cellars at this time of night?" the strange girl asked.

"It's her fault we got lost!" Lissy accused, pointing a small finger at Mitsy.

"Is not!" Mitsy argued.

"The fault lies with both of you, my dears," the girl said, giving them a "tut-tut" kind of look. The girls looked away guiltily.

After twisting and turning through several dark passages, the two girls and their rescuer emerged into the left wing of the stage.

"And here we are at the stage," the white-clad girl announced cheerfully. "No doubt you can find your way back from here?" The girls nodded. Their rescuer smiled and looked out wistfully across the stage. "I love stages. They seem to be calling someone to perform on them." The mysterious person retreated back into the darkness of the wing. Mitsy and Lissy watched her go, gaping slightly. Just when they thought she was gone, they heard rapidly approaching footsteps and leaped out of the way as the older girl leaped onto the stage. She pirouetted, tiptoed and jumped to music heard only in her head. She seemed to love the music and the dance, and they seemed to love her just as much. As she jumped, Mitsy and Lissy noticed that the strange girl was wearing pristine white ballet slippers. At last the girl's dance came to an end, and she bowed to an invisible audience. The little girls approached her, and she turned to face them with a mysterious swish of her blue cloak.

"Are you a phantom…" Mitsy began.

"…or an angel?" Lissy finished.

"I am both, and I am neither…" the girl said. She turned with another swish of her cloak and walked away from them. She stopped after a few steps and glanced back at them. "Call me what you wish." She disappeared. It was almost as if she melted into the darkness.

"We were lucky," Lissy said quietly as she stared into the darkness. "Instead of the Phantom, we were found by the Phantom Angel."

---

"What are you talking about?" Belle groaned, glaring at Mitsy and Lissy. "There's no such thing as…what did you call her?"

"The Phantom Angel!" the two girls replied in unison.

"Yeah- that. There's no such thing," Belle said. She turned to Chelsea. "Am I right?"

Chelsea shrugged. "They could be telling the truth."

"You guys must have had a weird dream or something," Belle told them. "It's nonsense! Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to rehearsal before I get tied to the catwalks again!" She stomped out of the wing. Chelsea followed her, her pink tutu flouncing annoyingly.

"I hate these things," Chelsea mumbled to Belle as they inconspicuously fell into step with the other girls. "Why can't we just wear leotards or something?"

"Apparently, leotards aren't girly enough," Belle answered. "Madame Giry must be insane. She had to pick the flounciest, pinkest, laciest, most annoying tutus _ever created!_"

"No talking!" Madame Giry barked from the front of the stage.

"The Phantom Angel…" Chelsea whispered thoughtfully. "Not the name I would have chosen."

"What are you talking about?" Belle hissed.

"Nothing!" Chelsea said quickly.

"You've been sounding really delusional lately," Belle muttered, craning her neck to see if Madame Giry was looking her way. "Always muttering to yourself and stuff."

"I am not!" Chelsea hissed. "I'm just- I'm just…oh, bullfrogs." She had just realized that she was the only one still dancing, that the music had stopped.

"Well, Mademoiselle Chelsea, you can't say you were paying attention now," Madame Giry said triumphantly.

"Sorry," Chelsea mumbled, looking at her feet.

"I have an announcement!" said the voice of Andrè Giles. Chelsea looked around for the source of the voice before she realized that the manager was in the orchestra pit, trying to climb onto the stage. After watching the short man struggle for a minute, a violin player boosted him up. "Thank you, monsieur," the flustered manager said, brushing off his business suit. "I would like to present to you our new co-manager!"

All the gas lights and the chandelier went dark. When they burst to life again, confetti was spilling from the rafters onto a young man who was dressed in a blue business suit. The man was striking a very peculiar pose, with his arms spread wide, his face turned to the ceiling, and his legs slightly apart. _Great_, Chelsea thought. _Another manager who thinks his place is on the stage. When will they learn?_

"Bonjour!" the new manager said loudly, in what was obviously a British accent. "I am Henry Danderson, your new co-manager! Messieurs Firmin and Giles hired me to make this opera house excel, and I already have plans on how to accomplish that!" He flashed a cheesy smile at all the performers. "First off…we will not be performing _Faust_!"

Everybody gasped.

"No, my friends. _Faust_ has been performed here too many times," Danderson explained, still smiling maniacally. "Instead we will be putting on a less-seen opera- _Hannibal_!"

Shocked silence met his words. Chelsea looked around and saw that everyone was staring at Christine De Chagny, who had turned white.

"Tell me, Monsieur Danderson," Meg Giry said finally. "Did the managers tell you about the Opera Ghost?"

Danderson's ridiculous smile faltered. "Who?"

"The Opera Ghost!" Meg said insistently. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

"They did mention something," Danderson said, shrugging it off. "I'm not a very superstitious person, so-"

"It's no superstition," Meg said boldly. "The Opera Ghost exists. We've all seen him. There's a reason _Hannibal _hasn't been performed in years. The same goes for _Il Muto_ and _Don Juan Triumphant!_"

Chelsea frowned in confusion. Erik had some explaining to do… What was all this about _Il Muto_? What was the secret behind _Don Juan Triumphant!_? And the new manager was really starting to tick her off.

"Who are you?" Danderson asked suspiciously.

Meg held her head high. "Meg Giry, lead ballerina. I've been here a long time…long enough to know that you're going to get a rude awakening."

Danderson stared at her like she was crazy. "Right…whatever you say. Anyway, I have the score for _Hannibal_ with me now, and-"

"Do you know about the Phantom Angel, too?" a little voice piped up. Everyone turned to see little Mitsy looking hopefully at the new manager.

"Who?" Danderson asked.

"The Phantom Angel!" Mitsy and Lissy said together. "She's like a good Opera Ghost! She watches out for the ballet girls!"

"Ludicrous," Belle muttered under her breath.

"I've seen her!" one of the other ballet girls said. She was much older than Mitsy and Lissy, and everyone seemed to take her more seriously. "She's beautiful!"

"She plays the violin," another girl added. "She played loud enough last week to drown out that thunderstorm!" Other girls started adding their accounts of encounters with the Angel.

"Silence!" Danderson shouted. "Silence, if you please! Ghosts do not exist! You are all blabbering about rubbish! Shut up! We need to get started."

Madame Giry was suddenly right behind Chelsea. "Chelsea, go to my flat and get the choreography records for _Hannibal_," she said into her ear. "Go quietly…"

Chelsea grinned. She knew Madame Giry was thinking what she, herself, was thinking. She was slightly put out that the ballet mistress had learned her secret, but that was okay. She knew Madame Giry wouldn't tell…she was too afraid of the Phantom's Punjab lasso. Chelsea slipped off of the stage, away from the sudden hustle and bustle of people trying to please the new manager. She worked her way through the immense labyrinth of the backstage area, stopping only when she reached a quiet, dusty, deserted closet. Chelsea opened a bag that was stored in the corner and pulled out a pair of white ballet slippers. "Rubbish? I'll show you rubbish, you puffed-up, foppish manager…"

---

Madame Giry had just organized the ballet into their positions and was beginning to teach them the new dance. The stagehands were looking for the old _Hannibal_ set pieces. Christine was looking over her script. The managers were seated in the audience, watching the hustle and bustle.

Suddenly, a girl dropped from out of the rafters and landed on the stage with a bump, scaring all the ballet rats. Everybody froze. Her knees bent, her eyes burning, the girl surveyed the staring crowd. She straightened up, her blue cloak swishing mysteriously. She smiled from behind the white mask she was wearing.

"_Why so silent, good Messieurs?_

_Did you think that I would hide my face for long?_

_Did you doubt me, good Messieurs?_

_Now you see that I am real, I'm_

_The Phantom Angel!_"

Her voice was light, slightly menacing, but seemed for the most part good-humored. Her accent wasn't French, but very light Scottish. The girl stepped through the crowd on tiptoe, her white ballet slippers in plain view. She stopped in front of Danderson, her smile now a smirk.

"_Fondest greetings to you, sir!_

_Just some advice before you take over this house:_

_You must not force the ballet rats_

_To learn a new dance every week…_"

The girl strode across the stage and stood next to little Mitsy. She stroked the young girl's hair as she looked up, irritated, at Danderson, who was gaping at her.

"_I'm sure they'll do their best,_

_It's true they are quite smart,_

_But even they _

_Most certainly can not learn_

_An opera in two days!_"

The Phantom Angel surveyed the new manager carefully. "Am I understood, monsieur?" She took the manager's silence as a "yes". She strolled forward, pulling an envelope out of the inside of her cloak. "Oh, yes, I have a message for you from the Opera Ghost. No doubt he isn't happy with the abrupt change in performances. Here," she said, holding out the envelope to a stagehand. "I would advise you to postpone the gala a few days. Maybe then you won't have to refund all your customers halfway through. Wouldn't you agree, Madame de Chagny?"

Christine did not answer. She was still looking very white, and she was staring at the Angel with a very suspicious look. The girl shrugged and looked back at Danderson.

"No more last-minute performance changes. Ever. You got away this time, but you won't be so lucky next time." The girl rose up onto the very tips of her toes and spun a fast pirouette. She disappeared with a bang and a puff of smoke.

Mutters and whispers broke out from the crowd, but were interrupted by what sounded like a muffled scream. Everyone immediately burst into the backstage passageways, searching for the source of the noise. They searched in vain for five minutes, until they came upon a very peculiar sight. Chelsea the ballet rat was hanging upside down from an old set piece. Her hands were tied together and it was clear that she was gagged. To add insult to injury, everyone laughed when they saw that the poor girl was hung up by her dirty pink ballet slippers.

----------

A/N: Sorry it took so long for me to update! I've just been really busy lately. So…now you see what the title means. I wrote the lyrics…okay, _most_ of the lyrics that the Phantom Angel was singing. It kind of goes to the tune of "Why So Silent?" I am very aware that the lyrics don't really rhyme. I tried, but I'm not an Andrew Lloyd Webber. Oh well. Please review! Please! Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease! This probably wasn't the most exciting chapter, but I'm going to make sure the next chapter has better stuff in it. Thanks for reading!


	6. Think of Me

Disclaimer: I didn't create the Phantom of the Opera, and I don't own it. I wish I did.

Chapter Five

The Phantom Angel sneaked through a tiny passage above the managers' office. She vowed to herself that she would never use this passage again, as she could barely squeeze through it. It was fine and dandy when she was six, but that was when she was six…

The Angel froze, hearing voices beneath her. The office door creaked open, then slammed shut. The managers continued their conversation, unaware of their lurking eavesdropper.

"He just won't admit that changing operas was a bad idea," Andre grumbled.

"He's the worst manager ever!" Firmin shouted, kicking something. "I don't know why we ever decided to hire him. All he does is stare at himself in the mirror all day, watch the ballet girls, and criticize the music!"

"We should fire him," Andre suggested.

"We can't fire him! He's under contract for the next three seasons!"

"Then we should find a way to stop him from coming to work or something," Andre muttered. "I can't stand having him around!"

"He's making everything worse," Firmin grumbled. "Now Christine doesn't want to perform anymore."

"She doesn't?" Andre gasped.

"No!" Firmin said through gritted teeth. "I had to beg and plead to make her sing tonight. If only we could bribe her, like we used to bribe Carlotta…"

"Why doesn't she want to sing?" Andre asked exasperatedly.

Firmin's voice dropped several decibels in volume. "She's afraid of the Opera Ghost."

"That's right," Andre whispered. "He helped her get this role all those years ago… I don't blame her."

"But she has to sing!" Firmin said. "There's no understudy. If Christine backs out then we have to refund all those tickets!"

"A terrible loss," Andre groaned. "That reminds me…have you paid O.G. his salary yet?"

That reminded the Phantom Angel why she was there. She crawled through the passageway until she reached a small vent. She jammed an envelope through it, slightly damaging the red wax seal on it, and listened as the managers discovered it. She backed away through the tunnel, leaving the managers and their bill behind.

---

"So," Chelsea grunted as she stretched. "Are you ready for the big performance?"

"No," Belle groaned. "I hardly know the steps!"

"We did have less than a week to learn them," Chelsea reminded her gently.

"The new manager is crazy," Belle grumbled. "Here we are, trying to cram in everything at the last dress rehearsal, and he's trying to make last-minute changes in the choreography. Madame Giry should whack him with that cane of hers."

"Come on, girls!" Madame Giry barked. "Onstage, now!"

Grumbling, Chelsea and Belle grabbed the reins of a big, dressed-up horse and led it onto the stage. They almost tripped over their baggy angel costumes. They felt absolutely ridiculous.

"I don't see why we have to practice standing around holding horses," Belle hissed. "Christine's the only one who's singing!"

"It's better than sitting in the dressing room, having stagehands spy on us," Chelsea whispered.

Christine de Chagny took her place at center stage. Chelsea couldn't help but notice that she was very pale, and that she trembled slightly. Her white dress was beautiful, and the diamonds weaved into her hair were the perfect accents. The music started, and Christine began to sing. Her eyes traveled around the ceiling. Chelsea knew she was looking for the Opera Ghost.

"_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly _

_When we've-_"

Suddenly, Christine's beautiful voice became very shaky. She broke off and ran off the stage, yelling, "I can't do it!"

Chelsea gaped. She had only ever seen one person act like that, and that was La Carlotta, many years ago.

"Madame de Chagny!" The two experienced managers were immediately at her side, begging, pleading, assuring her safety. The new guy, Danderson, was nowhere to be seen (rumors were heard later that he was peeking in on the changing ballet girls). No matter what they did or said, Andre and Firmin were unable to convince Christine to sing. The prima donna ran away, crying.

"Now what are we going to do?" Andre bellowed. "Christine has no understudy!"

"Calm yourself, Andre," Firmin commanded. He smiled grimly. "Do you know who just got back from her three-month vacation?"

Andre gasped. "La Carlotta?"

A crowd immediately formed around the two managers.

"You can't hire Carlotta!" a stagehand shouted.

"She's terrible!" A bass player cried.

"Not to mention old!" one of the tenors yelled.

"She sings to bring down the chandelier!" Chelsea yelled. The people around her gave her funny looks. "What? She does!"

"We don't have a choice," Firmin groaned.

"A choice about what?" Everyone turned to see Danderson pushing his way through the crowd. As always, his British accent sounded out of place among the French accents.

Firmin huffed. "If you had been here, Danderson, you would have known that our star has just walked out on us!"

"What?" Danderson yelped, his voice squeaking. Not a single person could hold back a snigger.

"So we're going to see if we can flatter Carlotta into singing for us," Andre said, turning his back on Danderson. An outburst followed his words.

"Quiet, everyone! We don't have a choice!" Firmin bellowed. "Unless one of _you_ would like to take up the part, we're getting Carlotta!"

Everyone was silent. They all knew that nobody in the crowd could even hope to sing as well as Christine. Chelsea wondered how Erik would react. He wouldn't be happy. He might even go so far as to cause a disaster beyond anybody's imagination… That would be very bad! Chelsea racked her brain, trying to think of a way to save the opera house from Carlotta's screeching voice.

"So we will be leaving now," Andre announced. "Danderson…you stay here." He started making his way through the crowd. The performers started murmuring urgently to their neighbors. It seemed as if they too were afraid of O.G. 's reaction. The managers were at the edge of the throng when a determined cry rent the air.

"I'll sing it!"

The crowd turned to stare at Chelsea. "You?" Danderson asked, slightly amused.

Chelsea shrugged. "I can sing," she said coolly.

"In the chorus, yes, but all by yourself doing a solo?" Danderson chuckled.

"I can sing," Chelsea repeated, less cool than before.

"You are a chorus girl, my dear," Firmin said. "Chorus girls don't sing solos."

"If I remember correctly, monsieur," Chelsea said, more dangerously than intentioned, "Christine de Chagny was a chorus girl when she got the part!"

There was a shocked silence as the managers looked at each other. Chelsea felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Let her try, Messieurs," Madame Giry said quietly. "She might surprise us all."

"_Fine!_" Andre huffed. He tore off his gloves. "Sing!"

Everyone cleared off the stage. The instrumentalists resumed their positions. Their conductor, Monsieur Reyer, started the song. Chelsea felt sick. She wished she had taken Erik's advice and had not drawn attention to herself. Oh well…too late now.

"_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly_

_When we've said_

_Goodbye…_"

Chelsea filled her lungs with air and started on the next part of the song. She sang strongly and sweetly, letting the words fill the air and float to the floor. She felt happy, happier than she ever felt when she was singing with the chorus. She let the music fill her up, until she felt full of bubbly excitement. Each word tasted sweet on her tongue. She glanced over to see the managers' expressions, and she smiled when she saw that they were astonished.

"_Spare a thought for me…_"

---

Chelsea savored the lyrics, letting them fly from her mouth. She looked out at the enthralled audience and felt a shiver run down her back. They were all staring at her expectantly from the darkened theater. Chelsea smiled broadly as she continued with her song. She felt strong, influential, and just plain beautiful in her costume. She had spent several minutes admiring the diamonds in her hair before going onstage. The lights shining on her were almost blinding, but she felt as if she were a star, shining brightly in the night sky.

"…_you will think…_"

Chelsea floated over the high notes as easily as a bird floats on the wind. She was surprised to find that the notes came so easily to her. She finished the song with a burst of energy, and couldn't help blushing as the audience sprang to their feet and applauded loudly. She had never expected to get this reaction! Some applause, yes, but never a standing ovation! Chelsea grinned slightly and waved to the crowd as the curtains closed.

She was instantly surrounded by several screaming ballet girls, who all offered their congratulations at the same time. Chelsea looked around for Belle, but found that her best friend was missing.

"Chelsea!" someone called through the crowd.

Chelsea turned to see a stagehand waving at her. She raced over to him.

"That was an excellent performance, Mademoiselle Chelsea," James complimented, smiling broadly.

Chelsea blushed, suddenly unable to say anything except a shy, "Thank you!"

"I honestly had no idea you could sing like that," James went on, looking amazed.

"Neither did I," Chelsea said sheepishly. "I really didn't-"

"Come along, mademoiselle!" Firmin said loudly, grabbing Chelsea's hand as he passed by. "Your fans await you!"

"My _fans?_" Chelsea gasped as Firmin pulled her along. "Wow." She looked over her shoulder at James and cried, "I'll see you later, James!"

Chelsea was all but smothered that night. Audience members of all ages crowded around her, asking for autographs, complimenting her singing, even slipping her little sheets of paper with their addresses scribbled on them (Chelsea dropped these as soon as the person wasn't looking). After nearly an hour, the managers forced everyone to leave, making sure to remind them that there were still tickets on sale for next week's presentation. Chelsea sighed wearily and fanned herself with an elegant fan that someone had dropped.

"Mademoiselle Chelsea?"

Chelsea jumped. Christine de Chagny was standing right next to her, dressed in formal opera wear and holding a program. "Bonjour, Madame de Chagny," Chelsea said politely, curtsying slightly.

"Forgive me for scaring you, dear," Christine said, smiling. "I had to sneak in. I wanted to congratulate you on your performance. You sang like an angel!"

Chelsea blushed harder than ever. "Oh, thank you, Madame!"

"Please, call me Christine," Christine said cheerfully. "You've changed, Chelsea. This morning you were a little ballet rat, a chorus girl who was easy to ignore. Now you're a star, shining on the stage, daring anyone to ignore you. You played the part so well!"

Chelsea smiled sheepishly and looked at her feet.

"Ah, Madame de Chagny! I trust you enjoyed tonight's performance?" Andre and Firmin had returned to the empty foyer.

"I most certainly did, Messieurs," Christine assured them. "I was just telling Chelsea that she played the part of Elissa very well. I'm sure in the future she could be a valuable asset to the theatre." She paused, watching Chelsea thoughtfully. "Don't you think it wise that her career should progress?"

That was how Chelsea the ballet rat became Christine de Chagny's understudy.

--------

A/N: Yay, Chelsea! You go girl! Life is pretty good for her at the moment. What did you think? Reviews are definitely appreciated! Thanks to all my reviewers! You guys rock out loud! I only ever thought I would get three reviews for this story, but now I've got 16! As Erik said, "_And now, my wish comes true. You have truly made my night!_" In the next chapter we'll learn why Belle wasn't around after the performance…muahahahahaaaaaaa! Ahem. Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing!


	7. Consequences

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. I've run out of funny/sarcastic remarks for my disclaimers, but I'm trying hard to think of new ones…

Chapter Six

Chelsea took an alternate route home that night, bypassing the lake and traveling over it instead. She wanted to sneak home in the hopes that if Erik didn't confront her until morning he would be less angry. The passageway was old, dusty, and unsafe, but it was sneakier than arriving in plain sight in the gondola. After crawling around in the musty tunnel for longer than she liked, she reached a hand out in front of her and felt nothing. The tunnel dropped down steeply in front of her, where it would eventually end behind the organ. Chelsea gritted her teeth and dropped herself down the fifty-foot drop.

She would have broken her neck, legs, arms, spine, feet, and other body parts had it not been for one thing- an enormous pile of pillows. When she was four Chelsea had piled masses of soft pillows in the little hideaway behind the organ and deemed it her "clubhouse". She never took the pillows out, although Erik had bugged her about it, and found when she was nine that they made a good safety net.

Chelsea untangled herself from the pillows and crawled to the hole that served as the entrance to the passageway. She peeked out around the corner and saw that Erik was nowhere to be seen. Sighing with relief, she crawled out through the hole and straightened up, brushing off her dress.

"Bonjour."

"EEK!" Chelsea yelped, jumping a mile into the air. She spun around to face O.G. himself, who had somehow appeared right behind her.

"Well, it seems you've had an exciting night," Erik said. His voice was as expressionless as his face. Chelsea hated that look. It always seemed to make her stutter and ramble.

"Uh, well, yeah, I guess so," Chelsea said, trying to smile. She edged away from Erik. His face was still expressionless, but for some reason she kept seeing visions of eggs frying on sidewalks and steam bursting out of a kettle. "And now I'm, uh, really…really, er, tired! Yeah, so…bye!" She raced off toward her bedroom, hoping against all hope that she would get there before Erik did.

Something brown flashed before her eyes, and suddenly her arms were pinned against her sides. An invisible force yanked her backwards, and she fell to the ground. Of course…Erik had always been good with a Punjab lasso. Sighing, Chelsea sat up and turned to face her father, whose face no longer expressionless.

"HOW DARE YOU?" Erik roared. He threw his end of the lasso to the ground. "CHELSEA, YOU KNOW I DON'T LIKE YOU TO SING!"

Chelsea winced and averted her eyes. She had known that this was going to happen. Every time she opened her mouth to sing, Erik got angry. He had never told her why he didn't like her to sing. Now he seemed as angry as hell itself…

"For all fifteen years of your life I forbade you one thing!" Erik bellowed. "The only thing I ever ordered you not to do was sing!"

"I'm sorry," Chelsea whispered, tears forming in her eyes. She heard a small clinking sound and looked up to see that Erik's mask had fallen to the ground. He glared down at her, the deformed side of his face making him look even more terrifying.

"You're NOT sorry!" Erik screamed. "If you were sorry you wouldn't have done it in the first place!" He kicked over a stand of candles in his anger. "Why, Chelsea? The ONE thing I told you never to do!"

"They were going to hire Carlotta," Chelsea whimpered.

"I DON'T CARE IF THEY WERE GOING TO HIRE A MIME!" Erik roared. "Now you've gone and made a big scene of yourself! It'll be harder than ever to keep your secret! When people find out, don't expect any help from me, Chelsea! You can go out in the streets for all I care!"

Chelsea was sobbing into her hands. She heard Erik approach her and felt his hot breath on her forehead.

"Look at me, Chelsea," she heard him say. "LOOK AT ME!"

Horror-stricken, Chelsea looked up. Erik was positively fuming; she had never seen him this angry.

"Do I scare you, Chelsea?" Erik asked, almost jeering. "Is this what scares you, little girl?" He pointed at the deformed side of his face, at the pink, blotchy skin. "ANSWER ME!"

"No!" Chelsea wailed. She was telling the truth- she took no notice of Erik's distortion and never had. Erik had always failed to understand this.

Erik stared her in the face for a moment longer, then straightened up and walked over to his organ. "No more singing," was his last comment before he launched into a fast, powerful piece of music.

Chelsea threw the Punjab lasso off of herself and ran from the room. She didn't go to her bedroom. Instead she ran to a small alcove beside the lake. It contained one thing- a dusty, black swan bed. The bed was another one of the many mysteries in Chelsea's life. Erik refused to tell her anything, but Chelsea liked to imagine that this was where her mother slept if or when she had ever lived down here.

Chelsea had always imagined her mother to be like royalty. If she put her nose to the soft red covers she could smell a faint trace of vanilla-scented perfume. Sometimes she imagined a beautiful woman with flowers in her brown hair, growing a garden of exotic flowers in pots down here in the dark. Sometimes she imagined a black-haired woman with eyes as green as emeralds who loved music as much as Erik did. Sometimes she imagined a cold, evil woman with steely eyes and a love for making others suffer. Chelsea had always wondered why her mother had left her. It was possible that she had died and that it was impossible for them to be together, but Chelsea had always found that hard to believe. She liked to imagine that her mother was out in the world somewhere, held captive by an evil king, lost in an enchanted forest, or perhaps just too afraid of the dark to return.

Chelsea collapsed into the bed, burying her face into the soft pillows. She sobbed until all her tears were gone, but stayed just to breathe in that wonderful vanilla scent. She thought, not for the first time, that if her mother was still there Erik would be a much nicer person. Thinking about her mother got her crying again, and she cried herself to sleep.

---

Chelsea clambered up the stairs to the ballet dormitory. She had been unable to put the memories of last night behind her, so she had resolved to talk to Belle about it. It was early in the morning, and most of the ballet rats were already warming up for rehearsals. Belle was the only one who wasn't downstairs.

"Belle!" Chelsea called, knocking on the door. There was no answer. Chelsea opened the door and walked inside the room. Belle was nowhere to be seen. "Belle?" Chelsea yelled. There was an edge of panic in her voice. If she wasn't downstairs and she wasn't in here, where could she be?

"Oh, it's you," said a voice from behind her. Chelsea spun around to see Belle making little Mitsy's bed.

"Oh, Belle! You really scared me!" Chelsea said, sighing with relief. "I'd thought-"

"Don't you have some weird understudy rehearsal to go to?" Belle cut in, not looking at her friend.

Chelsea was puzzled at the tone of her voice. "No. Christine agreed to sing the next performance. She's really scared, but she says she can do it. You should have seen her face when she-"

Belle walked out of the room, her ballet slippers dangling from one hand.

Chelsea frowned. "Belle, come back here! I wasn't done talking to you!"

"Well, I'm done listening!" Belle yelled over her shoulder.

Chelsea gaped dumbly for a moment. Why was Belle being such a prat today? She sprinted after her friend, but didn't catch up with her until they were on stage getting ready to dance.

"Belle!" Chelsea hissed to her friend as they went through their warm-up routines. "Belle, what's wrong?" It didn't surprise her that she didn't get a reply.

"I'll be back in a moment, girls," Madame Giry announced dryly. "I must have a little chat with that new manager of ours…" She walked away, muttering something about "worse than stagehands."

As soon as the ballet mistress was gone, Belle stalked away toward a group of girls who were talking animatedly. Chelsea followed her. "Hey, guys!" she greeted her friends.

The girls looked at her rather strangely. "Are you actually talking to us?" Charlotte asked.

"Of course I am," Chelsea said, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. "Why wouldn't I?"

"It's just…we thought since you had your big break you wouldn't want to associate with us anymore," Kirsten said.

Chelsea massaged her forehead. "I'm beginning to wish I'd never volunteered."

"Sorry, Chels," Charlotte apologized. "We were being dumb."

"It's okay," Chelsea said, but it really wasn't. She was watching Belle carefully, and she was sorry to see that her friend's attitude hadn't changed a bit. "I'm not singing in the next performance, so I'll just be a ballet rat again. Although if Christine decides not to-"

"Look, Chelsea," Belle interrupted angrily, "we don't want to hear you brag about your amazing triumphs. We all know you're more famous then we'll ever be, so stop rubbing it in our faces!"

Chelsea felt her cheeks flush. "I wasn't rubbing it in your faces!" she retorted, glaring daggers at Belle. "You know, one would think that a person's best friend would congratulate her for getting a big break. I never imagined you would get all mean and jealous!"

"Excusez-_moi_?" Belle cried, matching Chelsea's hateful gaze. "I'm not being jealous! You're being braggy and acting spoiled!"

"I was not!" Chelsea almost yelled. "I was sharing news of-"

"Dance formation, girls!" Madame Giry barked, breaking up the fight. Chelsea and Belle sniffed and stalked away from each other…then realized that they had to stand next to each other. They stood as far apart as they possibly could, and refused to look at each other. Mid-routine, Chelsea sneaked out and tiptoed into the right wing. James was waiting for her.

"Why is Belle being so bratty?" Chelsea hissed.

"She's just a little jealous," James said, shrugging.

"A _little_?"

"All right, she's really jealous," James said. "And who could blame her? She's a low-ranked ballet rat whose best friend just got to be the star. She was ignored and overlooked."

Chelsea hung her head. "I guess so. But it's still not fair of her to accuse me of bragging!"

"Well, it's really not that fair of you to accuse her of being braggy," James said, smirking slightly.

"CHELSEA! WHERE ARE YOU?"

Chelsea cringed. "Oooooh dammit." She slunk back onto the stage to face Madame Giry, who was livid.

"Well, Miss Chelsea? Where have you been? Don't tell me you think that since you got a big break you think you can do whatever you want now!"

"No, Madame!" Chelsea argued despairingly. "I honestly don't! Everybody thinks that now, but it's not true!"

"She was probably off staring at herself in the mirror," Belle said loudly, "imagining herself surrounded by fans and admirers and pretending she was pretty."

The catfight that ensued was one of the most entertaining the Opera Populaire had ever seen. Chelsea launched herself at Belle, and the two girls rolled around on the ground, kicking, scratching, biting, pulling hair. This went on for several minutes. Madame Giry was shrieking something terrible, but she was unable to get through the crowd of excited stagehands, ballet girls, and instrumentalists.

Finally, Chelsea caught Belle in a tight headlock. "Take…it…BACK!" she shouted into her adversary's ear.

Belle flipped over so that Chelsea was on the bottom of the pile. She got hold of a lock of black hair and pulled hard. "NO!"

At that moment the crowd decided to intervene. James grabbed Chelsea, a bass player took hold of Belle, and everyone helped them pull the scrabbling duo apart. They clawed at each other for a moment as they hung in midair, then fell limp, exhausted. They were set down next to each other, where they sat, panting and sweating, for several minutes.

"Belle," Chelsea panted at last, "can we just go back to being friends? It's hard being your enemy!"

"Okay," Belle gasped, fanning herself. "Sure. Sounds good to me."

"Hey, what happened to Madame Giry?" Chelsea asked, scanning the crowd.

Meg made her way through to the center of the crowd, grinning broadly. "She went down to the Speckled Fish for a large brandy," she said triumphantly and mischievously. "All right, people! I'm taking charge of this rehearsal! Dance formation, please! Let's start out at measure 43 1/2! Why? Because I want to! Come on, people, let's go! And let's get rid of that weird swaying thing…the audience hated that. Instead we'll do something like…"

And so Meg got acquainted with the supreme feeling it gives someone to rule the world. Chelsea had a strange feeling that she had just given Meg some bad ideas…

---

Chelsea drew her bow across her violin slowly, closing her eyes and reveling in the beautiful sound of the song. It was late and she was tired, but she had gotten the irresistible urge to do some improvisation. It was a tune she had created herself, and she was making up words to it as she went along.

"_And so if you happen down the street one day_

_And you see that little cottage of mine_

_Please knock on my door and visit my abode_

_And we'll drink an entire vat of wine…_

"Hold it…that makes them sound like alcoholics. How about…

"_And we'll have a jolly fun time._

"Yeah…That's better." Satisfied with her work, Chelsea put her violin and the bow on their special shelf in her bedroom. She looked up to see Erik lounging in the doorway, looking like he had something on his mind. "Father?"

"Chelsea." He nodded his head.

"What's on your mind?" Chelsea asked.

Erik didn't say anything for a moment. When he finally started talking, it sounded like every word caused him pain. "I've decided…that you can sing and be Christine's understudy."

Chelsea squealed with happiness. She jumped up and hugged Erik happily. "Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

Erik nodded his head and walked away, his face expressionless once more.

"Father?" Chelsea called after him. He turned to look at her. "Just out of curiosity, what did you ever do to Christine? She's scared to death of you!" she giggled. Her smile vanished when Erik frowned.

"I never did anything to Christine de Chagny!" he hissed. He stalked away, and about thirty seconds later Chelsea heard loud organ music being played.

"What did I say?" Chelsea shook her head, bewildered, then went to bed.

----------

A/N: Woohoo, another chapter out! Thanks to all my reviewers out there! You guys make me blush! Coming up next chapter: Meg's Mid-life Crisis! ;) Please review, people! My work just has no meaning without your comments! While you're waiting for the next chapter, why don't you check out my new phic, "The Hayfield Times"? Don't worry- I'll keep up with Phantom Angel! Hayfield is a story that I thought up during journalism…have fun! Thanks for reading!


	8. James and the Angel

Disclaimer: Breaking news, people! This morning, StarrySpark announced to the public her attempt to buy The Phantom of the Opera. She was successful! Hold on a second…that's wrong! Where's my red pen when I need it? That should be _un_successful! Darn newspapers. Yeah…I don't actually own PotO. I love typos, though. Don't you?

Chapter Seven

James was in a towering temper. He was livid, to say the least.

"Stagehand, sweep the stage! Stagehand, move the piano onstage! Stagehand, get that piano off! Stagehand, put the piano on! Stagehand, move the piano to the other side! Stagehand, mop up those skid marks!" he mimicked, mopping the floor angrily. "No, Stagehand, you don't need any help with your night shift because you're young and unimportant." He kicked his bucket over and yelled, "Does anybody care that it's nearly midnight and I'm still working? Does anybody care that I'm tired and angry and that I haven't eaten since breakfast?"

His echoes were the only answers. James huffed and started mopping up the spilled water. "Who am I kidding? No one cares about me. Not that stupid new manager, not the stupid old managers, and certainly not the actors! Huh. They think they can sing… Whoever made Slovakson the leading tenor should be strangled. I wonder why the Opera Ghost hasn't taken care of him yet. He's terrible! _Hahneeeeebaaaaawl caaaaaahms!_" He did a perfect imitation of the Russian singer's terrible articulation. "And don't even get me started on that solo he's trying to learn…" James struck an odd pose, with one hand groping toward the ceiling, the other clutching at his heart. "_Saaaaaahmdaaaaaaeeeee yoooooooooy weeeeeeel reeeeeeeee-ha-liiiiiiize that Ieeeeeeeee aaaaaaaahm-"_

"You know, that song would sound a lot better if you sang it the correct way."

James jumped and spun around. Sitting on top of the piano was a masked girl in a white dress, white ballet slippers, and a velvet cloak. Her hair was tied back in ballet girl style, held with a white ribbon. "It's you!" he croaked.

The girl cocked her head to one side. "Who?"

"The Phantom Angel!" James whispered, unable to keep from staring.

"Oh, her," the girl laughed. Her voice sounded slightly Scottish… "Yes, it's me. And if you don't mind me saying so, you're really destroying that song."

James blushed visibly. "I…I didn't…it was just an imitation."

"So sing it the right way," The Angel ordered, swinging around to sit at the piano bench. "Come on, I'll accompany you."

James swallowed. How could he say no? The Angel started playing, and James started singing.

"_Someday you will realize_

_That I am the one for you._

_Someday you'll open your eyes_

_And see that my love for you is true…_"

The Angel stopped playing. She looked up at James, shaking her head. "If you don't open your mouth and _sing_, you'll never get that high note out. Put some _oomph _behind it!" She started the song again, and James tried out her advice. He didn't want to sing out for fear that he would sound bad, but then again he didn't want the Angel to think he was too ignorantto takeher advice. He compromised by singing slightly louder. The Angel kept playing, nodding her head in time with the music. She was playing entirely from memory, but she sounded ten times better than the opera house's best pianist. At the end of the song she joined him, her voice ringing clearly across the stage, floating an octave above his own.

"_If the world should stand between us,_

_There's not a thing I would not do_

_To fight my way over _

_And cross that bridge to you._"

James suddenly found himself beside the piano, watching the Angel finish her song. Her eyes were closed. She was clearly savoring the sound of the music. She opened her eyes at last and gazed up at James admiringly.

"That was much better," she murmured. "For one who works with ropes and ladders, you sure can sing. You could definitely improve, though…would you like to try again?"

"Only if you sang with me," James said, smiling. He didn't know what made him say it, but there it was- hanging in the air like a criminal. For a moment the Angel stared at him, one eyebrow raised. Then she gave him a small smile.

"All right. From the beginning then, Monsieur James…"

---

"Chelsea? Do you realize you've got a whole bunch of zits around your-"

"Yes, Belle!" Chelsea snapped. "I am very aware of the fact that I have zits all around my nose!" She sighed irritably and tied the laces on her ballet slippers tight. Wearing a mask so often had caused a major buildup of sweat and oil on Chelsea's face, resulting in a bad case of acne.

"I was only trying to be helpful!" Belle said, raising an eyebrow at Chelsea. "You seem really..._ticked_ today. That time of the month?"

"No," Chelsea sighed. "I'm just stressed. And tired. Sorry for snapping. I really didn't mean it."

"No problem," Belle said, shrugging it off and lying down on the stage. "Lord knows I've snapped at you enough over the years. Do you think-"

She was cut off by a loud howl.

"What was that?" Chelsea wondered.

"I don't know…" Belle got to her feet. "Let's go find out."

The sounds of someone crying loudly brought them to Christine's dressing room. Chelsea knocked on the door. "Christine? Are you all right in there?"

Christine opened the door. "Good morning," she greeted them, somewhat cheerfully. "I'm all right…Meg's having a little breakdown."

"What's wrong, Meg?" Chelsea called.

Meg sobbed something Chelsea couldn't understand into her hands. She was sitting at Christine's mirror, apparently having the biggest cry fest of her life.

Belle and Chelsea kneeled at her side. "It's all right, Meg, dear," Belle said soothingly, patting Meg on the shoulder.

"Tell us what's wrong, Meg, and maybe we can help," Chelsea said softly. She thought she heard Christine snort in the background, but it was probably just her shutting the door.

Meg shook her head. "My life is a complete failure!" she wailed. "I'm halfway done with life and I have nothing to show for it!"

"Shhh," Chelsea whispered. "You have plenty of things to show for your life! You're the lead ballerina!"

Meg shook her head again, tears streaming from her eyes. "I'm no better than the worst ballet rat! I'm going to live all my life in this opera house without ever being anything other than a dancer! I've stayed here in the hopes of becoming ballet mistress when Maman retired…but she's still here and I'm still worthless! I've wasted…what? Fifteen, sixteen years of my life at least."

"Oh, Meg!" Chelsea cried, "that's terrible! We'll do whatever we can to help!"

"Yes!" Belle agreed, patting Meg's hands. "Just say the word!"

Meg started sobbing into her hands again. "You're so kind! You really don't have to say that..."

"We mean it, Meg!" Chelsea insisted. "If there's any way we can help, by golly, we'll do it!"

Meg straightened up, tears gone. "All right, then. Let's get to work," she said briskly, without a trace of the sob. "I've got all the equipment set up backstage. If we start now we won't have to stall rehearsals that long."

"What the blazes are you talking about?" Belle asked.

"My master plan!" Meg said, as though it was obvious. "My plan to chase Maman into retirement!"

"Whoa, hold it!" Chelsea said quickly, backing away. "I'm not helping with that!"

"You promised!" Meg said triumphantly. "You said if there was any way you could help, you would do it. Didn't they say that, Christine?"

"You promised," Christine said, shaking her head with an amused expression on her face. "I'm honestly surprised at you, girls. Even I could tell she was faking, and I'm as gullible as a newborn duckling."

"You knew about this?" Belle yelped. "Why didn't you warn us?"

"If you'll excuse me, I must go down to rehearsals," Christine said quickly. She left the room, leaving Chelsea and Belle to cringe at Maniac Meg.

Meg rubbed her hands together like a mad scientist. "Let's go!" she cackled. "Plan A is about to begin!"

"What kind of horror do you think Plan A is?" Belle muttered to Chelsea.

---

"Ow! Oh, Madame Giry! It hurts so badly!" Belle wailed, her face screwed up in pain. She rocked back and forth, holding her ankle. "I think I twisted it! Ouch! No, I definitely broke it!"

"Let me see," Madame Giry commanded, kneeling down next to Belle.

"No, Madame!" Belle cried, turning away from the ballet mistress. "It's grotesque! It would surely make you faint!"

"Let her see, then!" someone called out.

"Silly girl!" Madame Giry huffed. "If you hadn't tried to be so fancy in your leap you wouldn't have lost your balance."

"I know, Madame Giry!" Belle sobbed, tears rolling down her face. "It's my own fault! If only I had listened to your kind, caring, clever advice, than perhaps I would not be in this awful predicament! Woe is me, for I have not listened to the words of the greatest ballet mistress on earth! The rains will fall down from the heavens, drenching me with guilt and sorrow! Then the hottest fires of-"

"Knock it off with your big words and thoughtful sentences!" Madame Giry ordered, now very annoyed. "Let me see your ankle!"

"No, Madame, I insist-" Belle broke off, seeing Chelsea wave at her from the right wing. "Actually, it feels a lot better now. Let's continue, shall we?" She jumped off the floor and posed, ready to dance.

"You insolent, troublemaking ballet rat!" Madame Giry growled, standing and towering over Belle. "I ought to take you upstairs and tie you to the catwalks!"

"That won't be necessary, Madame!" a deep male voice from the rafters called down. "The catwalks are coming down to you!"

"It's the Phantom of the Opera!" Belle shrieked. Chaos flooded the stage as screaming ballet girls fled the stage and the catwalks crashed down to where they had just been standing. Up in the rafters, Chelsea smiled and winked at Meg. The master…or mistress, actually, of all accents and impersonations had done it again!

"Silence!" Madame Giry barked. "All of you, get back up here! Stagehands, get your lazy behinds out here and clean up the mess!" None of her orders were obeyed. The girls continued to scream, and nobody reported onto the stage.

Suddenly, all the backdrops fell down to the stage, and several set pieces fell over. Clouds of dust appeared from seemingly nowhere, and all the gas lights suddenly flared enormously. The curtains caught fire and burned to a crisp.

"_I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera…_" The Opera Ghost's voice sounded from the rafters of the opera house. Then they heard it right above the stage- "_I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera…_" Then they heard it again, this time distinctly from Box Five… "_I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera…_" The chandelier overhead started shaking and swaying dangerously.

"STOP THE INSANITY!" Madame Giry shrieked. "I QUIT! I'M LEAVING! GOODBYE!" She stormed off the stage.

"YES!"

Everybody turned to see Meg doing a triumphant little dance on the catwalks that hadn't fallen. "Goodbye, Maman! Don't let the door hit ya' or the Good Lord split ya'! In case anybody was wondering, I am now in charge of the ballet! And all the choreography! Yes! Bow down to me! I give you…my triumphant actresses!"

Belle leaped into center stage and dipped into a curtsy. Chelsea slid down a rope to the stage and did the same.

"NO MORE HANNIBAL!" Meg roared. "BURN THE SCORE, MONSIUER REYER!"

Everybody laughed as the poor conductor's face turned very pale.

"_I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera…_"

"You can shut up now, Chelsea!" Meg yelled down.

"That wasn't me!" Chelsea screamed. Chaos ensued. The ballet rats screamed and started running around in circles. The gas lights went off, so the only light was the fire that was burning the remains of the curtains.

"EVERYBODY SHUT UP!" Meg bellowed. The room was silent.

"_Brava! Brava! Bravissima…_" An eerie wind blew around the stage. It whispered and hissed, sending shivers down everyone's backs. Then...it was gone.

The lighting returned to normal, and Meg climbed down from the catwalks. Crying ballet girls immediately surrounded her, like lost sheep gathering around a shepherdess. "It's okay!" Meg yelled. "The Opera Ghost is gone! It's all right, don't worry! It's all right!"

Later, while stagehands were cleaning up the stage, Meg approached Chelsea and Belle and drew them off to the side. "Excellent performance!" she whispered, grinning like a maniac. "I didn't think it would be so easy! You know, I'm actually rather disappointed that we didn't get to the lions and tigers and bears…"

"Oh my," Chelsea moaned, massaging her forehead.

---

"Monsieur James?"

James jerked awake and unstuck his face from the piano. Kneeling on the bench beside him was the Phantom Angel. He smiled wearily. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle…Angel? Do you have a name?"

The Angel smiled. "Of course I have a name."

"Well, what is it?"

The girl took a deep breath. "I am called…_L' Ange Fantôme!_"

James chuckled. "Well, I knew that. Do you have another name?"

"I am the Phantom Angel," she replied simply. "That's who I am. That's all anyone would ever need to know about me."

"All right, then," James said, shrugging. They sat in silence for a moment, just looking at each other. "Angel? I've been wondering… How do you know my name?"

"I know things, James," the Angel replied. "I have a vast expanse of knowledge."

"That's certainly true when it comes to music," James murmured, looking at the Angel's right hand, which was on the piano. It struck him as interesting how her fingers seemed to curl instinctively around the keys.

"It does elude me, however, why you waited until tonight to ask me that," the Angel said softly. "This is the fifth time I've come to visit you, you know."

James smiled. "I know. I guess I kept forgetting to ask. I was under your spell…"

"My spell?" the Angel laughed. She had a beautiful laugh…it sounded like the higher notes of a piano. "I'm an angel, James, not a witch!"

"No, you're not a witch. But you're not just an angel, either," James said quietly. He looked into the Angel's eyes and noticed for the first time that they were a brilliant shade of blue. "You're also a phantom…mysterious and dark."

The Angel merely looked at him, smiling coyly, with her head cocked to one side.

"Your music is like a mixture of light and darkness," James murmured, looking into those beautiful eyes and just feeling happy. "And you sing…well, like an angel."

"I am an angel!"

"I know," James laughed. "I would love to see you perform in an opera or something. It would brighten my day considerably. Sometimes it's not much fun, pulling at ropes all day…" He trailed off, feeling slightly downcast. He looked down.

"James…" The Angel lifted his chin up until he was looking at her. She was very close to him… "James, do you like singing?"

James shrugged, suddenly feeling hot and sweaty. Was it just him or did the temperature suddenly rise dramatically? "I guess so… I'm not very good, but I do enjoy it."

"Someday, James, you will get a big break," the Angel whispered, gazing into his eyes. "You'll sing onstage, with an audience watching you. Then the world will see how extraordinary you really are."

James shook his head. "It sounds wonderful, but I don't think it'll happen," he said, trying to smile. "I'm only a stagehand, after all…"

"Your friend, Chelsea, was only a ballet rat," the Angel reminded him. She stood up and walked away into the shadows of the right wing. She looked back at him over her caped shoulder. "I'll see to it, James. You _will_ be a star." With a swish of her cloak, she was gone.

----------

A/N: Aaaawww, how sweet! It seems that James has acquired an Angel of Music. So…how'd I do? I haven't had a lot of experience with love scenes…workin' on it. I feel it very necessary to apologize for not updating in several days. For those of you who haven't seen my note in "The Hayfield Times" yet, I have had a really hectic week! Homework, concerts, projects, dances…I had a very interesting time at my school's March Masquerade. If you want to read the details, I've got it up on my profile page. So…please review! Your comments just tickle me pink! And remember: happy authoresses write faster! So, please review! Thanks for reading!


	9. The Island of Dance

Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.

A/N: I quote Erik…_Why so silent, good Messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good? Did you miss me, good Messieurs? I have written you an opera. Here I bring the finished score…DON JUAN TRI-_ Oops. Sorry…got caught up in the moment. I wrote an opera! Actually, I just wrote some of the lyrics and stage directions. You can make up your own tunes. No, it's not called _Don Juan Triumphant!_ It's actually pretty good, if you remember that I'm not someone like Andrew Lloyd Webber. It's weird and probably irrelevant to the story, but I just _had_ to write it. So enjoy, and be sure to let me know how I did!

Chapter Eight

"_Mademoiselle Giry!_"

"Go away, Maman! I'm trying to sleep."

"_Mademoiselle Giry!_"

"Somebody stop that fish…he stole my ballet slippers."

"_Sakes alive, Mademoiselle! Wake up!_"

Meg opened her eyes and found herself face-to-face with none other but the Phantom Angel. "AIIIEEEEEE!"

The Phantom Angel swiftly covered Meg's mouth with her hand. "Please, Mademoiselle! Do not wake the entire opera house!"

Meg sat up quickly. "What do you want?" she asked suspiciously.

The Phantom Angel sank into a small curtsy. "I wish to show you something," she said, her Scottish accent mystifying Meg. "If you accompany me to the stage, I'm sure you will find something of interest."

Meg yawned. "Can it wait 'til tomorrow? I'm tired!" She jumped as a bathrobe landed on her head.

"No, Mademoiselle. It would be unwise to wait much longer. Come on! Hurry!" The Angel grabbed Meg by the hand and dragged her out of bed. Meg groaned and let herself be pulled through the opera house. She was led out onto the new catwalks. Below them, one of the stagehands was mopping the stage. But he was also singing…

"Listen," the Angel whispered. "What do you think?"

"He's good," Meg whispered, peering down at the stagehand. "Very good."

"His name is James," the Phantom Angel whispered. "He just turned seventeen. He has the night shift every night, poor thing."

"Does James have a last name?" Meg asked, still staring at the singing stagehand.

"He was orphaned at a young age," the Angel whispered. "He doesn't know his real last name. Legally he's James Saxone, but he doesn't like it. Rebellious lad, him."

"Saxone? Is he related to Charles Saxone, that filthy rich aristocrat who hates the Opera Populaire?" Meg looked up at the Angel, curious.

"He adopted James," the pretty girl replied. "And he doesn't like how James works here, which is half the reason why the lad does."

"Has he been singing long?" Meg asked, jerking her head at James.

"As far as I know, for about a month and a half," the Phantom Angel replied.

"Interesting," Meg murmured. They were silent for a moment, just listening to the stagehand sing. His voice was rich and strong, and he sounded like he seriously enjoyed singing.

"I think he'd do well onstage," Meg said thoughtfully. "What do you think?" She looked up at the Phantom Angel, but found that she had disappeared.

---

Chelsea yawned over her breakfast.

"You seem tired," Erik observed. "Did you stay out all night?"

"No," Chelsea mumbled. "Stayed out pretty late, though. Must've gotten three hours of sleep." She groaned. "We're starting rehearsals for a new production today. Meg's going to be lovely…"

"I still don't fully understand why you helped her get rid of Antoinette," Erik said, his face expressionless as usual.

"Who?"

"Madame Giry."

"Oh, yeah, well…I promised!" Chelsea said, shrugging. "She tricked me. Madame Giry's probably much happier on her vacation than she would be here, anyway."

"They were very nice effects, by the way," Erik commented. "Your ventriloquism gets better every day."

Chelsea grinned. "Thanks. I guess I'd better get going." She got up from the table and hugged Erik before racing off through the lair. "I'll see you tonight!"

---

"Wow…This is nice!" Belle commented. After weeks of sitting around lazily while the stage was repaired, the ballet girls were finally onstage again. One of the first things they noticed was that the new curtains were made of the richest red velvet and gold thread.

"Yeah…they fixed that enormous crack at center stage," Chelsea said, looking around. "That always used to trip me up."

"So where's that ballet mistress of ours?" Belle wondered out loud.

"I'm afraid to find out," Chelsea muttered. "She's really weird, that Meg."

"Maniac Meg," Belle giggled.

"Mademoiselle Madwoman," Chelsea laughed.

"Freaky Fruitcake!" Belle snickered.

"Cuckoo Cat!" Chelsea sniggered.

"Loony Lobster!" Belle chuckled.

"Nutty Nettie!"

Chelsea and Belle looked down to see that Mitsy and Lissy had joined their conversation.

"Um…hi, girls," Belle said, giving Chelsea a look that said, "Oh, great."

"Chelsea, will you tell us the story about you and the Phantom Angel?" Mitsy asked.

_They're obsessed!_ Chelsea thought, inwardly groaning. "But I've already told you that story a hundred times!"

"Pleeeeeeeeeease?" the girls begged.

"Oh, all right," Chelsea sighed. She sat down on the stage. "So…I was walking through the vast labyrinth of twists and turns that lies backstage. Madame Giry had asked me to go get the choreography for _Hannibal_. I kept getting this feeling that someone…or something…was watching me."

"Were you scared?" Mitsy asked, like she did every time Chelsea told the story.

"No, not really. It was a nagging sort of feeling. So I was walking along, and suddenly, from out of nowhere, the Phantom Angel jumped out at me!"

Mitsy and Litsy gasped, like they did every time Chelsea told the story..

"For a moment I just stood there, gawking. Then I started to say something, but she stopped me. She told me, 'Changes are coming to the opera house, Chelsea. Be prepared for the worst.' And then I saw that in her hands she had a Punjab lasso! It looked exactly like the one the Opera Ghost uses! I screamed so loudly that I was sure you must have heard me on the stage. But the Phantom Angel stuffed a bit of fabric into my mouth and shoved me up against the wall. 'Forgive me, lass,' she said, 'but I can't let you mess up my plans.' And then she whacked me on the head and everything went black. When I woke up I was hanging from a piece of scenery by my ballet slip- IT'S NOT FUNNY!"

The little girls collapsed in a heap on the stage, roaring with laughter, like they did every time Chelsea told the story. Chelsea rolled her eyes. "Immature brats."

"If I recall correctly," Lissy stated boldly from her position on the floor, "only a few minutes earlier you were making up weird names to ridicule Meg! I don't know about you, but that sounds very immature to me!"

Chelsea glared at the two girls, finding no way to justify herself.

"Let's face it," Belle said amiably, "we're all a little immature at heart."

"All right, all right! Gather 'round!" Meg shouted as she marched over to center stage. "The managers and I put our heads together and decided on a new production! It's called…_The Island of Dance_!" She unfurled an enormous poster that depicted tropical islanders dancing. "It's modern, exciting, and not in a weird foreign language!"

The ballet girls crowded around the poster, murmuring excitedly. Soon they were joined by servants, singers, and a few stagehands.

"The opera is about a spicy romance that sparks when a shipwrecked English family lands on an uncharted tropical island," Meg explained. "Benjamin Caldercan is the only son of two wealthy, snooty aristocrats, and frankly, he's bored with his life. When he gets shipwrecked on the Island of Dance, he immediately finds the beat and the rhythm of the island's consistent music and dance. Then he catches the eye of a pretty island girl named Lyssia, and…you know what happens. Now, you can guess that Mummy and Daddy don't like this new relationship. When they finally get rescued, they agree to bring Lyssia with them on one condition…she has to be, in their words, 'civilized'. That means no more dancing, no more singing, and she has to start acting like an English aristocrat. Poor Lyssia tries, but she just can't live without the music of the island. She gets sick and falls into a coma, so its up to Ben to bring her back to the island. Do they make it? Will Lyssia live? Will they be parted forever by the harsh rules of society? I'm not telling you."

Groans filled the air as Meg rolled up her poster and tossed it off to the sides. Meg ignored all this and continued on.

"I took care of the casting, since Monsieur Reyer obviously wasn't going to get it done in the next ten years," she yelled over the noise, shooting an angry glare at the maestro. Everyone fell silent. "Thank you. Playing the role of Lord Daniel Caldercan, Ben's snotty father…Mikisi Slovakson!"

The crowd had to exercise determined self-control to not burst out in applause. Slovakson was the lead tenor, but he certainly didn't deserve the lead role. Everyone was excited to hear about a new star.

Meg went on. "The person who plays the spoiled, snotty, rude, satirically aristocratic Lady Elizabeth Caldercan, Ben's mother, will be none other than Christine de Chagny!"

Had Chelsea been drinking something at the moment, she would have sprayed it all over the people in front of her. Christine wasn't playing the lead?

"Thank you for those wonderful comments, Meg!" Christine called, her voice positively dripping with sarcasm.

"You're very welcome, Christine!" Meg giggled, grinning and wrinkling her nose. "Let's see, where was I?"

"The lead! Who's playing the lead?" The crowd was obviously as mystified as Chelsea was.

"Oh, yes. The ballet will definitely have a large role in this production," Meg went on. "You will all be island dancers! Yay, you. And the supporting roles are-"

"WHO'S PLAYING THE LEAD?"

Meg cringed and covered her ears. "All right, all right!" she bellowed. "Fine!" She turned around to face the catwalks, where a large number of stagehands had gathered. "Ben will be played by James Saxone!"

One of the stagehands yelped and slipped off of the catwalks, landing with a loud bang on the stage.

"WHAT?" the crowd gasped together.

"Are you okay, James?" Meg called out to the fallen stagehand. James' expression suggested that someone had just clubbed him on the head.

"I never knew you could sing!" Chelsea called out, staring at James with wide eyes. She was shocked that Meg would give him the lead. He was only a beginner, after all. _Meg must really hate Slovakson,_ Chelsea thought.

"I can't sing!" James yelped, sweat dripping onto his face. "I can't!"

"Yes, you can!" Meg told him. "I know you can. I got a visit from the Phantom Angel last night…" She paused as everyone gasped and started murmuring to their neighbors. "She told me that if I accompanied her to the stage I would find something of interest. And I did. I found our new star!"

James was silent, but his red cheeks said everything. He got to his feet. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Finally he choked out, "Are…Are you sure you want _me_?"

"If I wasn't sure, we wouldn't be having this discussion right now!" Meg assured him, looking a little impatient. "No more arguing! Moving on! Now, I'm sure you've all been wondering why I didn't give Christine the lead. No offense, Christine, but you don't really suit the character. You're too different from each other."

Christine shrugged. "I don't have a problem with it."

"The role of Lyssia calls for spunk, fire, determination, and youth," Meg said, "which is why I gave the role to Chelsea."

"WHAT?" This time the outburst didn't come from the entire crowd, but just from Chelsea herself.

"Spunk, fire, determination, youth," Meg repeated, now somewhat exasperated. "It describes you perfectly, Chelsea. And besides, you and James are the perfect ages for each other, where Slovakson is around ten years older than Christine."

"But I can't sing the lead!" Chelsea almost wailed. "I'm only an understudy, and an inexperienced one at that!"

"James is only a stagehand," Meg pointed out, shrugging. "You know, I imagined that you two would be happy to get the leads. No matter. Discussion over! You're singing, and that's that!" She paused for a second, looking mischievous. "To further my point, I shall quote La Carlotta as she was closing a matter of her own. 'UBLADO! ANDIAMO! GET MY DOGGY! BRING MY DOGGY! ANDIAMO! BYE-BYE!'" The crowd snickered at her perfect imitation of the Italian diva.

"Give it up- there's no arguing with her!" Belle muttered as Chelsea opened her mouth again. Chelsea sighed and shut her mouth, knowing that her friend was right.

Meg spent the next fifteen minutes assigning roles and talking about characters. Chelsea pretended to listen while she stewed over her problem. She worried that Meg had overestimated her talents. She was thinking so hard that she didn't realize James had come to stand next to her until she felt someone give her hand a little squeeze.

"All right! Orchestra people, why aren't you in your pit? Ballet rats, go sit in the audience! Everyone else…do whatever, just get off my stage!" Meg yelled. "Monsieur Reyer…start the music!"

The orchestra started playing the music, which they knew well because they had had it for a few weeks already.

Meg strode over to the far right side of the stage. "Chelsea!" she called. "We start with you! Get up here!"

Chelsea scurried onto the stage and stood next to Meg. The music sounded really different from any other music she had ever heard. There were all sorts of percussion in the mix, and it had an irresistible rhythm to it. She felt like breaking out in dance…

"All right," Meg began, "at the fourteenth measure you're going to kind of sashay out of the right wing, whooping, clapping, and shouting…"

---

"…Who knows what mysteries await you on the Island of Dance?" Chelsea shouted, throwing a little bit of Jamaican accent into her speech. She jumped into a one-handed cartwheel and listened as the audience in the darkened theater gasped. She could tell that they were enjoying this as much as she was. The managers had invested a lot of money into equipment for modern light effects, and they were the perfect touch! Now the painted island scene behind her was hued with the colors of sunset.

"On the Island of Dance we revel in the beat, in the rhythm, in the song, and most definitely in the dance!" Chelsea cried, starting to dance to the irresistible rhythm. She shook her head, and the thousands of tiny braids that her black curls were plaited into swung. The tan shirt she was wearing had wide sleeves, fit tightly, and showed a lot of midriff. Her pants (yes, pants!) were the same color, but the legs were embroidered with red thread. She wore tan ballet slippers on her feet.

"There is always music on the Island of Dance!" Chelsea announced to the enthralled audience. "For music is our heart and soul! The dance, our sustenance! Should music ever leave us…who knows what horrors would await us on the Island of Dance?" Chelsea did another cartwheel and burst into song.

"_On the Island of Dance!_

_Welcome to the Island of Dance!_

_Music is our heart and soul,_

_Music makes our lives seem whole!_

_On the Island of Dance!_

_If you do not take a chance_

_You'll suffer 'neath the scorching sun,_

_Suffer 'til the day is done!_"

"Done" was a high note, and Chelsea held it out for a long time, slowly raising her arms into the air. As she did so, the music got faster and more exciting. Behind Chelsea, other "islanders" leaped onto the stage and started dancing like there was no tomorrow. The chorus picked up the song.

"_On the Island of Dance!_

_We revel in only the dance!_

_The music is the key to living happily on this island across the sea…_"

Chelsea sang the next part alone. "_On the Island of Dance!_"

The lights dimmed, and the tempo decreased slightly. The only instruments being played were the bongos. The scene had a mysterious air to it. The chorus sang just loudly enough to be heard. They weren't singing as much as whispering…

"_What happens when strangers stumble upon our island green?_

_Surely we're the strangest things that they had ever seen!_

_What happens when aristocratic people hit the deck?_

_The waves are crashing, teeth are gnashing, rocks are bashing, wind is lashing, someone cries_

_SHIPWRECK!_"

Blue light flashed across the island scene. The timpani and bass drum took over the orchestra, drowning out the frantic violins. Half of the islanders took up the chant. "_Waves are crashing, teeth are gnashing, rocks are bashing, wind is lashing!_" The other half whispered "_Shipwreck!_" at random. They exited the stage. Chelsea was the last to leave. She spun slowly off the stage, crossing one foot around the other. When she reached the left side of the stage she paused and pointed at the other side. "Shipwreck!" she cried. Then she disappeared into the left wing.

The corps de ballet leaped onto the stage, dressed in blue and waving blue scarves. Chelsea smiled when she saw Belle's face set in concentration. Without warning, the crash cymbal performed its famous note and the dancers jumped into action. Jumping, leaping, twirling, sliding…Meg had done her work well. The ballet seemed to resemble the angry ocean. Once again the tympani and bass drum ruled the orchestra, but now they were aided by the crash cymbal. The trumpets and violins had to fight to make their frantic music heard. Suddenly, all was silent. The instruments were quiet, the ballet girls were perfectly still, and the audience waited with bated breath on the edge of their seats. Then a low rumble filled the air…the timpanist was at it again. Louder and louder the tympani rumbled! The ballet started moving again, silhouetted against the dark background. Suddenly the crash cymbal thundered out a roaring command, and the lights turned up just enough to see six male dancers, dressed in blue, appear on the stage. They were carrying something interesting between them.

The violins grew louder, and the ballet girls started chanting. "_Shipwreck!_" The violin sounded desperately frantic now, as though it knew it was fighting a losing battle. "_Shipwreck! Shipwreck! Shipwreck!_" The dancers set down their burden and twisted off the stage, accompanied by the ballet. The burden, which had looked before like a bundle of clothes, was now recognizable as a young man. He didn't move as despairing cries came from offstage. "_Ben! Benjamin! Where are you?_" The violins held out their last note. While they did so, the lighting changed. The set was bathed in dawn sunlight.

The tropical percussion mix started up again as islanders crept around the man. They whispered excitedly to themselves. "Who is he?" "Where did he come from?" "What is he doing here?" "Is he alive?"

A girl kneeled down by the man's head, her dark braids swinging. "Yes! He is alive!" she cried. "_He is alive!_"

The other villagers echoed her. "_He is alive!_" The girl looked up, her eyes shining.

"_He must have a story!_

_An exciting one to tell!_

_What is his name? Who is he?_

_What wonders he could tell!_"

Older islanders leaned toward her.

"_Lyssia, oh Lyssia!_

_Your hopes inspire us all_

_But this man is a stranger,_

_Yes, a stranger, to us all…_"

"He awakens!" an islander yelped. They all froze as the young man turned onto his back and slowly sat up. A female islander jumped toward Lyssia and pulled her away. The young man seemed frightened and puzzled. When he started singing his voice sounded hoarse, but it became stronger as he continued on.

"_Where am I?_" The question was left unanswered, so he tried again.

"_Where am I?_

_Who are you?_

_What is this place?_

_This can't be true!_"

"It's very true!" All the islanders wheeled around to face a newcomer- a fat guy with a really big hat. He strode into the middle of the group and stared down at the young man. "What is your name, young sir?"

The young man got to his feet and dusted himself off.

"_My name is Benjamin,_

_Benjamin Caldercan._

_I don't suppose anyone could tell me_

_Where the heck I am?_"

"_On the Island of Dance!_

_Welcome to the Island of Dance!_

_Music is our heart and soul!_

_Music makes our lives seem whole!_" No one was surprised to see young Lyssia dance her way over to Benjamin and curtsy, singing. Several islanders were quick to pull her away and shove her to the back of the group, muttering reprimands.

"Ben! Benjamin! There you are!"

"My darling Ben! Where have you been?"

The crowd parted as a man and a woman raced in, dressed like overly foppish aristocrats. Their clothes were ripped and torn in several places.

"My poor darling!" the woman cried, flinging her arms around a very red Ben. "Lost on this island without your mummy and daddy, surrounded by…NATIVES!" She jumped and shrieked, seeming to only just realize there were islanders all around her.

"Mum! Get off!" Ben hissed, trying to release himself from his mother's hug. "And stop overreacting!

"_Can't you see these people mean us no harm?_

_Can't you see they haven't hurt me yet?_

_Don't go making accusations before we've met,_

_And for goodness sakes, let go of my arm!_"

The fat guy with the big hat approached the three Brits, causing the lady to shriek and wave her parasol pseudo-threateningly. He merely raised his eyebrow in response as he launched into song.

"_Here on the Island of Dance,_

_We give all people a chance._

_Shipwrecked people, you may stay_

_With us 'til your rescue day!_"

The stage went dark, but the music continued to play. When the lights went up again, the audience could see the islanders' village, full of huts, bonfires, and tiki torches. The aristocrat family was seated off to the side, surrounded by dancing islanders, totem poles, and lots of food. The chorus was singing loudly and happily.

"_On the Island of Dance!_

_Welcome to the Island of Dance!_

_Music is our heart and soul!_

_Music makes our lives seem whole!_"

Lady Caldercan addressed her husband.

"_These people are abominations!  
They dance like happy-go-lucky fools!_"

Lord Caldercan answered in the same snobbish tone.

"_They would never make it in society,_

_They'd fall easy prey to the world that is so cruel!_"

Ben stood up, giving his parents a loathing stare. He spat his words angrily at them.

"_On the Island of Dance!_

_They live on the Island of Dance!_

_Not some proper British town,_

_It's all right to dance around!_

_You aristocrats! _

_You spoiled aristocrats!_

_You'd never survive without them,_

_Don't go making fun of them!_" With that, he launched himself into the fray of wild dancing.

"He understands!" the islanders shouted.

"He understands!" the fat guy with the big hat (who apparently didn't have a name) shouted.

"I understand!" Ben shouted.

"What does he understand?" Lord and Lady Caldercan wailed, for they didn't understand.

"_He understands the dance!_

_He understands the passion!_

_He sees our great obsession!_

_Ben understands our dance!_" the triumphant islanders sang. The ballet/chorus lined up in formation for the biggest dance number yet. Their dance was somewhere between ballet and hula…very odd, yet very entertaining.

"_On the Island of Dance!_

_We can't live without the Dance!_

_Music is our heart and soul,_

_Music makes our lives seem whole!_" Their voices dropped a few decibels.

"_On the Island of Dance!_

_Two lovers can find romance!_

_Dancing to an island tune,_

_Dancing 'neath the island moon!_" The dancers backed off, whispering to each other, leaving two people dancing at center stage. Ben and Lyssia were so into the music and the dance that they didn't realize the other was there. They jumped and slid, twisted and turned, waving their arms and feet, doing exactly the same dance as the other did. They only noticed each other when they stopped, breathing hard, posed triumphantly. Their heads turned slowly to look the other in the eye. The tropical music stopped, only to be replaced by flowing, peaceful harp music. Lyssia and Ben gazed at each other for the longest time, emotions of confusion and awe flitting across their face as they felt strange feelings for the first time. Or was it really James gazing lovingly at Chelsea? The world will never know. Ben took Lyssia's hand and kissed it tenderly. Lyssia blushed and smiled shyly. They stood there for a moment, hand in hand, until Lyssia led Ben offstage. The fast tropical music started again as Lord and Lady Caldercan rushed after their son, yelling frantically. The islanders moved forward, dancing as usual.

"_There is love in the air!_

_Sweet, tender love in the air!_

_For there's a reason why dance_

_Rhymes with romance!_"

The stage went dark again, and wind chimes tinkled to show the passing of time. The lights came up gradually, showing a beach inhabited only by Ben and Lyssia. The harp music was back, this time accompanied by wind chimes, bells, and flutes. Ben sighed.

"_Oh, Lyssia…I love you more than life itself_

_But I fear that forever we'll be parted,_

_For the ship has come to rescue us._

_Too long I've been in waters uncharted…_"

Lyssia rested her head on Ben's shoulder.

"_Why must you leave?_

_Why must we be parted?_

_Why can't you just stay with me_

_On this island uncharted?_

_You said you love me_

_More than life itself._

_Now you say that we must_

_Put our love on the shelf._"

Ben draped his arm around Lyssia's shoulder, tears forming in his eyes.

"_It's the stupid English society,_

_And I've got a duty to uphold._

_For I belong to the world of aristocrats,_

_To their power my life has been sold._

_If I were to stay here _

_And live a happy life with you_

_Living Hellmightmight break outin England,_

_It seems strange, but believe me- it's all true._"

Lyssia buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Ben hugged her close to him. In the background, a few ballet girls danced on to the stage and conveyed the poor lovers' emotions through a heartbreaking dance routine. Finally, Lyssia lifted her head. The sad, triumphant trumpets joined in with her despairing lament.

"_If you can't stay, then let me come with you!_

_I don't care where you go or what you do!_

_I don't care, just as long as I am with you!_"

"_But my parents would never accept you_," Ben sang sadly, touching Lyssia's cheek. Lyssia got to her feet.

"_Did you hear me? I don't care!_

_No matter what!_

_I can change! I'll do whatever I must!_

_From this day, I'll be a model of good society._

_Be it one year, or a thousand and ten…_"

Her voice swelled to an enormous strength that few people could compete with going that high.

"_From this day I will NEVER DANCE AGAIN!_"

Ben stood and wrapped her into a hug. Even the audience members sitting in the back could feel the sad passion of the two desperate lovers. The curtain fell, signaling intermission.

"Chelsea? James? You can let go now!"

Chelsea pulled away from James, blushing profusely. "Sorry," she whispered, not meeting James' eyes. "I got a little caught up in the character."

"Yeah, me too," James muttered, slightly hoarse. "Um…I'd better go change for the next scene." He walked off, his ears turning tomato red.

Belle skidded over to Chelsea's side. "Nice job on that last part," she commented happily. "I was crying a river!"

Chelsea wiped her eyes. "So was I. Or Lyssia. Or whoever it was."

"You really got into character there," Belle said. "Or was it real?" She grinned evilly and ducked as Chelsea swiped at her.

"It was not real!" Chelsea insisted. "I was acting! I'm an actress! That's what I do!"

"Sure," Belle laughed, ducking again. She raced off to join the other ballet girls. Chelsea wove her way through the busy backstage area. All around her stagehands were changing the scenery, actors were rushing around finding pieces of their costumes, and ballet girls were trying to escape the Wrath of Meg. Chelsea had almost reached Christine's dressing room when she felt someone touch her…inappropriately.

Behind her, someone wolf whistled. "Hey there, sweetheart!"

Chelsea turned slowly to see Lucas, one of the bolder, more handsome stagehands looking at her with narrowed, lustful eyes. She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled secretively. Chelsea sidled up to Lucas, moving her hips a little more than necessary. "Hi, Lucas," she said softly, tracing the stagehand's lips with her finger. She felt Lucas' arms snake around her waist and pull her in close to him. Chelsea put her arms around the stagehand's neck. "I was wondering if you could do me a little…_favor_." She put strong emphasis on the word "favor".

"Sure, sweetheart," Lucas said seductively, his hands drifting a little lower. "Anything for you."

Chelsea touched his cheek softly with the back of her hand, and then smacked his face so hard that he fell to the ground. "GO BE IMMATURE AND BASTARDLY SOMEWHERE ELSE!" she screamed, being sure to stomp hard on his hand as she walked off.

"Wow…" Chelsea jumped as James appeared beside her. "That was surprising and slightly disturbing."

Chelsea shrugged. "He's not alone. Ten other stagehands have the imprint of my hand on their cheeks." She sighed. "This is what happens when someone wears clothes like mine. That's why I don't dress like this."

"_Ten_ stagehands?" James gasped. "You slapped down _ten_? Just like that?"

"Just like that," Chelsea replied smartly. She paused. "Why? Were you going to say something?"

James shook his head. "If I was, I wouldn't tell you. Not after that!"

"Smart decision," Chelsea said, smirking. She and James parted ways, and soon she arrived at Christine's dressing room. She let herself in. "Christine? Are you in here?"

"Yes! I'm here," Christine said, sounding rather flustered. "I can't find my costume, though! Have you seen it?"

"It's the blue dress, right?" Chelsea asked, looking around. "The ridiculously poofy one?"

"That's the one."

"Here it is," Chelsea announced, pulling it out from underneath a small table. "Wow, this place is a mess!" She looked around at the piles of costume parts.

Christine shrugged. "I can't be neat all the time. I tend to choose the worst possible moments to be messy. It's a habit I've never been able to shake off."

Someone banged on the door. "Christine? It's Meg! Can you come out here for a moment?"

"Coming!" Christine called, abandoning the pile of costumes. "I'll be right back, Chelsea," she said. "That is, unless I can't escape the Wrath of Meg." She laughed and exited the room.

Chuckling to herself, Chelsea organized the costumes into neat piles. Her costume change didn't happen until after Act Two started, so she had some time to spare. She jumped when something light landed on her head. She found that the object was a rose, and that a black ribbon was tied around its stem. It held a tiny piece of paper.

_Congratulations on an excellent first act, Chelsea. You sang very nicely, but remember not to get too emotional. The audience can't understand you when you do. And yes, I was watching from Box 5. _

_O.G._

Chelsea giggled. She was glad that Erik had finally accepted her love of singing. It had taken her a while to convince him to let her sing as the star, but it appeared that her hard work had paid off. Now Erik was actually proud of her…

"I'm sorry, Chelsea. Meg was just…what's that?"

Chelsea hid the rose behind her back. "Nothing," she lied, hoping desperately that Christine wasn't smarter than she looked. "Just a flower I found on the floor."

Christine stared at her suspiciously. Chelsea knew she had seen the black ribbon. What conclusions were forming in her mind? The prima donna opened her mouth to ask another question, but Meg appeared in the doorway. "Chelsea, come on!" she said impatiently. "The curtain goes up in three minutes!"

Chelsea hurried to the doorway. Christine gave her a big hug as she walked out. "Break a leg," the prima donna whispered affectionately. Chelsea returned the hug warmly. Christine had been a big help during rehearsals, and Chelsea now looked to her for advice, guidance, and a friendly face after a long session of enduring the Wrath of Meg. Christine was beginning to seem like the mother Chelsea had never had…

Chelsea smiled as she was let go. "Thanks, Christine," she said. "You, too." She slipped out the door and ran back toward the stage. She stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. There was something familiar about the vanilla-y scent that wafted faintly through the air. Where had she smelled it before? Why did it seem so familiar, so intriguing, so…comforting?

"TWO MINUTES, CHELSEA! LET'S GO!"

Shrugging, Chelsea continued through the labyrinth.

----------

A/N: So? The opera was kind of weird, yes, I know. Act Two comes up next chapter! I PROMISE to make it short-ish…partially because it's bugging me to death. Sorry about the really slow update…it's been two weeks, right? I feel so ashamed! -grovels at the feet of readers- I just ran into so much trouble writing the opera… It probably would have been wiser just to leave it out, but by the time I realized that, I was already three-quarters of the way done. I was originally going to put the entire show in one chapter, but I've left you waiting long enough, and the chappie's already bazooka long… So please review, and please, please, please take pity on my pitiful opera…I now have a greater respect for the people like Andrew Lloyd Webber. Happy Late St. Patrick's Day, by the way!


	10. Act Two

Disclaimer: No, I don't own the Phantom of the Opera, in any of its various forms. I do own the Island of Dance, though, which is obvious because it stinks.

A/N: Mission- Finish writing the stupid operetta. Objective- write the least number of lyrics possible and add in more character feelings. I realized that the previous chapter was very boring because it was a totally different story that in no way related to my phic. So I'm going to try to make it more interesting. Let me know how I did….

Chapter Nine

"I am Lyssia…a poor island girl who's about to get abused in ten thousand ways," Chelsea muttered to herself.

"What are you doing?" Belle asked, appearing beside her.

"I'm trying to get back into character," Chelsea said, her eyes shut tight. "I have to _be_ Lyssia, not just pretend to be her. I _must_ get back into character…oh, this isn't working."

"Break a leg, Chelsea," James called, patting Chelsea on the shoulder as he walked by.

"That worked," Belle giggled as Chelsea's eyes snapped open and a silly grin appeared on her face.

"Shut up!" Chelsea grumbled, giving her friend a shove.

Belle shoved her back. "Save it for the fight scene, will you?"

"CURTAIN CALL!" The two girls jumped.

"Meg needs to pipe down," Chelsea groaned. "In the past four weeks she's taken over just about every aspect of this opera house!"

"Except the orchestra," Belle reminded her. "The only thing Monsieur Reyer was able to keep."

"He'd better keep it under lock and key," Chelsea chuckled. "Before long it'll be a victim of the Wrath of-"

"I SAID _CURTAIN CALL!_" Meg swept by the two girls, catching Chelsea by the ear and dragging her along. "How many times have we practiced the timing?" she huffed. "Honestly, Chelsea, if you're not in place when the curtain goes up I'll drown you in the Opera Ghost's lake!" She pushed Chelsea out onto the stage a second before the curtain was drawn. The music started to play. Chelsea opened her mouth to speak…and realized she'd forgotten her lines. She gaped wordlessly, staring out at the audience.

"It's big, isn't it?" James improvised, coming to stand at her side. In a flash, Chelsea remembered.

"It's too big," she recited, staring around distastefully. "Why on earth would anyone need so much room?"

James laughed and took her hand. Chelsea felt a little tingly sensation go down her spine. Whatever problems she'd had getting into character before were gone now. She was Lyssia…the poor island girl who was about to get abused in ten thousand ways.

"The ball starts in three hours!" Christine screeched, doing her best impression of an English La Carlotta. She raced onto the stage, accompanied by the corps de ballet, who were dressed as maids. "You can't wear that ever again!" Christine announced, pointing at Lyssia's island garb. "Servants, civilize her!"

One of the maids yanked Chelsea into a chair and started undoing her braids, pulling rather harder than necessary. Chelsea winced as two other maids joined their fellow. She was hardly listening to Christine sing some weird song about aristocracy and all its rules and regulations. She was too busy thinking that her friends were having too much fun tugging on her hair.

When they had finished with her braids, Lyssia tried to get up, but was yanked down once more. A maid proceeded to violently brush her hair, while another sprayed ten gallons of perfume in her face. Chelsea coughed and gagged, but was drowned out by the audience, who had just laughed at something funny in the song.

A changing screen was dragged out onto the stage, and James was shoved offstage. Poor Chelsea was pulled behind the screen, hidden from the audience. They could only hear her cry, "No! Anything but that!"

"_And no proper woman would be seen without a corset!_" Christine trilled, purposefully badly.

The orchestra was silent. The entire house was completely silent. Then a _rrrrip_ and a sharp intake of breath was heard.

"Let's see the result!" Christine commanded as the music started once again. Chelsea stepped gingerly out from behind the screen, wearing an elegant, cream-colored ball gown. She was breathing slightly harder than usual, and her face was flushed. Her black, curly locks spilled over her shoulders, giving her a more civilized look. The gloves on her hands were the same color as the gown, but they had lines of gold glitter spiraling all over them.

James appeared by her side. "You look beautiful, Lyssia," he commented, smiling.

"Ben!" Lyssia cried, in an I-can't-believe-you're-taking-their-side tone. "_I…CAN'T…_" She tried to breathe in deeply, but was restrained by the stupid corset. "_…breathe!_" she choked out.

"Better, but not good enough!" Christine shouted. "Makeup!"

Lyssia yelped and tried to run away, but two maids grabbed her by her elbows and pulled her back, kicking and screaming. They deposited her in a chair and held her down, while a few others (smirking evilly at Chelsea) covered her in gigantic clouds of chalky powder. Chelsea coughed and then yelped in pain as a maid grabbed her hair from the behind and started pulling it back into a big ribbon. Two other maids jammed her feet into high heeled shoes. They pulled her to her feet and stood back to admire the effect. Chelsea wobbled on her high heels, and then fell backwards, shrieking. A maid caught her and pushed her back onto her feet, but the poor girl fell forward. In the corner, Ben (or maybe it was James…) was shaking with barely-contained laughter.

"Much better!" Christine approved, nodding graciously. "It's time to prepare for the ball!"

The backdrop was pulled up to reveal a backdrop that portrayed a ballroom. Dancers poured onto the stage, waltzing, chatting and having a good time in the old aristocratic way. Ben took Lyssia by the hand and led her onto the dance floor. They waltzed, smiling nervously at each other.

"What do you think?" Ben asked. "It's not as nice as the island dancing, but…"

"It's the best thing I've since I've come here!" Lyssia told him, smiling.

"Good," Ben sighed. "I'll be right back…"

He stepped off to the side. Lyssia stood there, ignoring the whispers of young ladies off to the side. _Ignore them,_ Chelsea thought. _Ignore them, or the Wrath of Meg will descend upon you!_

One young lady laughed loudly, and her friends shushed her when Lyssia glanced at them.

"Why?" the bold girl asked. "She can't understand us!"

"Actually, Miss," Lyssia interrupted,

"_I'm perfectly fluent in the English language!_

_I understood every word you said._

_I heard every insult that you've thrown at me._

_My goodness, you have such a large head!"_

The young woman gasped. _A little too dramatic, Belle,_ Chelsea thought. _Work on it._

Belle marched over to Chelsea. "Exactly who do you think you are?" she snapped.

"I am nobody," Lyssia replied smartly. "Exactly like you."

The young lady gasped again, then slapped Lyssia hard.

Chelsea squeaked. "_Stage slap!_" she hissed behind her hands. Belle turned and pranced off with her nose in the air. Chelsea shot her a furious glance and stomped off the other way, nearly killing herself in her heels.

Christine took center stage and sang with another soprano…something about civilizing wild beasts. Chelsea, once again, was not paying attention. She was grinning evilly at Belle from the right wing and getting the same expression from the left wing. Right on cue, she walked gracefully out onto the stage, in the background. She passed by Belle, who was walking the other way, and stepped meaningfully on the skirt of her friend/enemy's gown. The audience roared with laughter when they heard it rip.

Belle swung around and slapped at Chelsea again, but Chelsea dodged out of the way and gave Belle a taste of her own medicine. She didn't stage slap. Yelping, Belle slid her shoe off of her foot and threw it right at Chelsea's face, hitting her squarely in the nose.

Chelsea howled in pain, although it was muffled because she had her hands up at her nose. She staggered about in pain for a little while longer than she was supposed to, resisting the strong urge to scream about her broken nose. She made up for it by stomping down hard on Belle's foot, taking immense satisfaction in the scream that followed. The audience was just eating it up.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD ARE YOU DOING?"

Lyssia turned very red and spun around to face a seething Lady Caldercan. She hadn't seen all of the fight; she had merely witnessed Lyssia stomping on the girl's foot.

"I am very ashamed and embarrassed!" Lady Caldercan cried, outraged.

"But-" Lyssia started.

"Just what I would expect from a wild beast," the other soprano sniffed.

Lyssia stared at her, shocked and hurt, tears spilling from her eyes. Then she turned with a sob and ran offstage, adding insult to injury by tripping in her heels.

As Chelsea pulled off her shoes and wiped the makeup off her face, she listened as James/Ben reappeared on stage and yelled at his mother, stirring up the party.

The backdrop that had earlier depicted the Caldercan Mansion rolled slowly down again.

The audience was touched as they saw poor Lyssia walk slowly onstage. She had abandoned her shoes, makeup, and corset. She sat down dejectedly and started to sing.

"_Never did I imagine it would be this hard._

_Never did I think that I could fail._

_Never could I think I could be wrong,_

_That I would up fighting tooth and nail!"_

Chelsea poured as much emotion as she could into the lyrics while still trying to make herself understandable. She remembered the note from O.G. and couldn't help looking out toward Box 5…

"_I gave up my life, my heart, my soul_

_For love…for love._

_I gave up my music, gave up my dance_

_For love!_

_Was it really worth it?_

_I will never know._

_I gave up my life…_

_For love._"

The sad music died away, and for a moment there was silence. Then a distinct bongo rhythm could be heard…it was soft, but growing louder and louder by the second. It seemed to put Lyssia into a reverie. She stood up, as if in a trance and jumped forward, landing on her bare tiptoes. She glanced around to see if anyone was looking, then started to dance. It was simple at first, but it got more complicated and heartfelt, with Lyssia jumping, waving her arms, rolling her head…it was an odd thing to do in a fancy ball gown. Lyssia leaped into the air- it was, by ballet standards, an excellent leap.

It would have been perfect if Chelsea had not landed on her big, poofy skirts and slid five feet across the stage before falling on her back. _That_ wasn't supposed to happen! Poor Chelsea could feel her cheeks start to turn red, and she fought the reaction, trying to improvise and look depressed. She even threw in a few sobs for good measure.

Before she could pick herself off the ground, James/Ben was at her side, pulling her up.

"Oh, Ben," Lyssia whispered, shaking her head mournfully.

"_I'm so sorry. I love you, and_

_I gave it my best try._

_But if I don't return to my Island of Dance,_

_I will surely die!"_

With that, Lyssia collapsed into Ben's arms, unconscious. "Mother, Father! Call the doctor!" Ben yelled.

_Play dead. You are dead. Play dead,_ Chelsea thought, fighting the urge to snicker loudly.

"I clearly don't see the point, Benjamin," Lord Caldercan said, striding onto the stage with his wife on his arm. "She's only a wild islander, after all. A beast, Ben!"

The timpani rumbled as Ben positively shook with anger. After what seemed an eternity of tension, he burst out in angry song.

"_You monsters! You spoiled aristocrats!_

_I can't believe it!_

_She gave away her life for me!_

_How could you?_

_Ever since the moment_

_She arrived here_

_You treated her like a wild beast!_

_She's a person, a human!_

_I hate you!_

_I'm leaving!"_

Lord and Lady Caldercan watched, flabbergasted, as Ben scooped up the unconscious Lyssia and marched away.

_Oh my goodness,_ Chelsea thought. _James is _really_ strong…all those years of being a stagehand paid off!_

"B-but, Benny darling! Where are you going?" Lady Caldercan cried.

"To the Island of Dance!" Ben shouted, not looking at his mother. "Lyssia was willing to give up her life for me. It's only fitting that I should do the same for her. I have to get her there before the _only_ thing I care about dies!" He stomped offstage. As hard as it was to admit, Chelsea had to excercise a lot of self control to keep herself out of a swooning fit.

The backdrops were pulled up and the scenery was removed. A large, bridge-like structure (A/N: like the one in _Don Juan Triumphant!_) was revealed, along with a few palm trees. Ben/James walked back onstage and laid Lyssia/Chelsea carefully down on the far right side of the stage (_very_ carefully, as Chelsea had made it clear that if James caused her to hit her head again she would push him into the orchestra pit).

"I'm so sorry, Lyssia," Ben murmured, kneeling at her side. "You were willing to give up a life worth living for me, but I was unwilling to give up a prison life for you."

As he spoke, the villagers appeared onstage and started dancing to a bongo rhythm. The women were wearing stretchy blouses and short pants, and the men wore shorts, but no shirts. A few came and stared oddly at Lyssia and Ben, and Ben stared despairingly back. The young man started bobbing his head to the rhythm, and soon he was up dancing.

Suddenly, Chelsea felt an enormous urge to sneeze. _No!_ she thought desperately. _Please, God, no! Everything that could have gone wrong already has…don't sneeze! Don't sneeze, darn it! Don't-_"

She felt somebody grab her ankles, and then she was pulled offstage. None of the audience members saw it in the dim light.

"You've got exactly two minutes to change costumes," Meg growled at her. "I can't believe you forgot your lines! And then you fell!"

"Please, Meg! Can we do this later?" Chelsea begged. She sneezed loudly.

"Fine," Meg grumbled. She stalked off. Chelsea was immediately cornered by hair stylists, who attacked her hair and braided it as fast as they possibly could into the teeny, tiny braids Lyssia had worn in the first act.

Onstage, the dancers were still dancing and singing. It was surprising that the audience wasn't bored yet. But they all cheered when Lyssia appeared in the midst of it all, dressed in island attire and apparently very healthy. Upon seeing her, Ben broke out of his trance and pushed through the dancers to her side. She didn't notice he was there until he grabbed her hand, and everything went silent.

"Oh, Lyssia," Ben whispered, a pleading look in his eyes. "I'm so sorry. You could have died…" he trailed off, shaking his head. He looked up again, fire burning in his eyes. "I love you. No matter what happens, I will always be here at your side. We'll stay here forever, on the Island of Dance!"

A smile slowly crept onto Lyssia's face. She pulled Ben offstage, and the music started again. The islanders smiled knowingly at each other "Poor, young lovers…

"_He's broken his chains!_

_He's broken free!_

_He's out on his own…_

_Benjamin_

_Caldercan,_

_Benjamin,_

_Benjamin,_

_You've broken out!_

_Now you are_

_Free!_"

It was time for the reprise, and that meant one thing…the High Note. Chelsea ascended the stairs to the top of the bridge, singing with the chorus. Her palms were sweating. At the end of the song she had to sing a note that went beyond her comfort range. It had driven her completely nuts during rehearsals!

Christine had worked with her a long time to try and get that note out. It was a long time before Chelsea could even squeak it. It had discouraged her so much. She was supposed to be a soprano! Weren't these things supposed to come naturally? The note still didn't sound very good, but at least she could get it out now.

At the top of the bridge, Chelsea cartwheeled to the middle, almost slipping because of her sweaty palms. That would have been nasty! Ben/James spun out from the other side, wearing clothes similar to the islanders'. That meant he was shirtless.

Chelsea felt her heart start to beat a mile a minute as she and James joined hands and sang the reprise. She barely knew what she was doing- she was too busy staring into James's eyes. The brown pools shone with an intense fire, which had gentled slightly since she had reappeared on stage, but still burned into her mind and melted away all thought and feeling.

"_Two lovers can find romance…_"

James' hands squeezed hers encouragingly. Chelsea felt little shivers go down her spine. She opened her mouth and poured out her entire soul into one note, perfectly, beautifully. She held it out a little longer, savoring the taste on her tongue, and closed her eyes, tilting her face up slightly.

Suddenly, she felt James' lips against hers'. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, a strange sensation flooding her soul. James held her close and ran his fingers through her hair. They were dimly aware that the audience was cheering madly and that the curtain was falling. Neither of them heard the ranting and raving of a certain ballet mistress.

"THAT WASN'T IN THE SCRIPT!"

Finally, they broke apart, but stayed in each others' arms.

"I guess we got a little caught up in our characters," James whispered.

"I guess so," Chelsea said softly, not meeting his eyes but smiling all the same.

Off to the side, some ballet girls were watching them with interest.

"They're so perfect for each other," Charlotte sighed. "It's funny that they should realize it onstage, during a performance."

"You know what the song says," Belle chuckled. "_There's a reason why dance rhymes with romance!_"

---

Christine smothered Chelsea in a gigantic hug. "I knew you could do it!" she cried. "You worked so hard, Chelsea, and you got that note out perfectly!"

"Thanks, Christine," Chelsea giggled. "You know, I couldn't have done it without you."

At that moment, Chelsea's ballet friends ambushed her, cheering, laughing, joking about her and James. Christine took that moment to make her exit.

She walked back to her dressing room and entered, marveling at how well Chelsea had cleaned it up. She started over toward her wardrobe, but something on the floor caught her eye.

It was a rose. A rose tied with a black ribbon. Christine's heart jumped, and she could feel the color drain out of her face. With trembling hands she picked the rose up and read the note attached to it.

"Oh, Chelsea!" she whispered. She knew that there had been something suspicious about the way the girl had tried to hide the flower! "What have you gotten yourself into?"

---

A/N: Duuuuuuuuuuuuuun….dun, dun, dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuuuuuun….Christine and Chelsea have started down the path that leads to what I call "The Point Where Everything Clicks." That has a nice ring to it. Unless I'm feeling formal, I'll refer to it from now on as "PWEC".

WOOHOO! SPRING BREAK! And you know what that means…more updates! Hopefully! I'll be traveling, but you know what the good thing about laptops are? THEY'RE PORTABLE! I won't have internet access in the car, but I'll find somewhere that does so I can upload. Sorry for not writing faster…the stupid operetta was really getting on my nerves! I apologize for coming up with it in the first place. I assure you, it will **never** happen again. NEVER!

Coming up in the next few chapters: Chelsea/James fluff, Angry Erik, a masquerade, and…PWEC! Be a dear and review. I'd like to take this moment to thank all my reviewers…**especially the anonymous ones! Wow, you guys rock! I wish I could reply to the anon. reviewers, because you have such nice comments and questions! Thanks a lot for reviewing! Why is this bold? Just in case you're someone like me, who tends to skim-read long paragraphs.**

Okie doke then…I'm outta here! And in case you were wondering, **I did update Hayfield!** I alternate between the two, you know. Thanks for reading!


	11. The Aftermath

Disclaimer: -sigh- Doesn't everybody know by know that I don't own the Phantom of the Opera?

Chapter Ten

Chelsea burst through the door, giggling. Fans cried out her name as she shut the door, which made her giggle even more. "That was some performance," she remarked to Christine. "My nose still hurts! Didn't we teach Belle how to stage slap?" She looked up. Christine was staring at the mirror. Chelsea's stomach did flip-flops. "Um…Christine?"

"What?" Christine broke out of her trance and looked around at Chelsea. "Um, yes. We taught her to stage slap. Why?"

"Never mind." Chelsea didn't feel like going through it again.

"Tell me, Chelsea," Christine said suddenly. "Do you believe in the Angel of Music?"

Chelsea raised her eyebrow at the woman. "Um…no," she said slowly. "I mean, I've heard the story but I don't believe he actually exists."

Christine nodded and looked away. Then she glanced at Chelsea again. "Who taught you to sing?"

Chelsea was bewildered by the question. Why was Christine so curious all of a sudden? "Well," she said, thinking hard, "I guess Madame Giry came first, when she still ran the corps de ballet. She and Monsieur Reyer taught me to sing in the chorus. I practiced on my own a lot, in secret. My father isn't really fond of me singing, so I almost never sang at home. For the most part I observed other singers, their posture, how they breathed. Mostly I watched you," she added sheepishly. "You were the best role model."

Christine's eyes softened a little at that last part. "So you don't have a teacher or tutor?"

Chelsea shook her head. "No. That's why I'm so terrible compared to you."

"You're not terrible," Christine chided her. "You just need some-"

"Maman!" A small, brown-haired boy rushed into the room and jumped into Christine's arms.

"Nicky!" An older boy roughly pushed his way through the crowd, into the room, and slammed the door shut behind him. He too had brown hair. "Father told you not to run off!"

"Oh, calm down, Micah!" Christine laughed, tousling the younger boy's curly locks. "It is his first time, after all!" She turned to Chelsea. "Have you met my sons? This little ball of trouble is Nicholas, and that stern-faced, stickler over there is Michael."

Chelsea nodded at Michael, smiling. "Haven't I seen you around the opera house?" she asked curiously.

Michael shrugged. "Perhaps," he said politely, though he sounded slightly bored. "Sometimes I come here on errands, although very rarely."

"You've never seen me!" little Nicky piped up. "I never been here afore!"

"You mean 'I've never been here before,' right?" Christine told him, smiling proudly. Nicky shrugged.

The door opened again, and the Vicomte de Chagny entered, and Chelsea swore she felt bile bubbling in her throat. Her dislike of the viscount was intensified by the grand, fancy clothing that he wore. Who dressed _that_ formally for an opera?

"Michael, Nicholas!" he said, sounding annoyed. "I told you not to go running off."

Michael opened his mouth, outraged, and ready to deliver a brash reply. At the last moment he thought better of it and scowled at the floor. Chelsea imagined herself in the same position, and realized that she would have spoken out…and probably landed herself in worse trouble.

"Darling, we're running a little late," the vicomte pointed out, glancing at an ornate gold watch. "We'll need to leave as soon as possible if we're going to catch the train to Italy. We wouldn't want to be late for the conference, would we?"

Chelsea saw Michael bite his lip, as though trying hard not to groan. He couldn't keep himself from rolling his eyes, though.

"All right," Christine sighed. "We'll leave now. Good night, Chelsea. I'll see you in a few days."

"And excellent performance tonight, mademoiselle," the Vicomte de Chagny added hastily. He glanced sideways at Michael. "Michael, stop slouching!"

"Merci, Monsieur le Vicomte," Chelsea said, curtsying respectfully and forcing a small smile. She glanced sideways at Michael, who now looked thoroughly annoyed. "Have a nice trip."

The vicomte thanked her and exited, quickly followed by Christine, who was still holding Nicky. Michael was the last to exit, and he dragged his feet, muttering under his breath.

"Um…Monsieur de Chagny?"

Michael looked up.

"You look like the kind of person who can't wait to move out of their parents' house," Chelsea said, "and I honestly don't blame you."

Michael smiled grimly. "Thank you, Mademoiselle…" he trailed off, waiting for a last name.

"You can call me Chelsea," Chelsea said quickly. "Everybody does."

Michael shrugged. "All right, Chelsea. You can call me Micah."

---

Chelsea rowed the gondola across the lake, humming to herself like a little bumblebee. She went off course several times, seeing images of James instead of where she was going. After she almost lost her balance though, she forced herself to concentrate for fear of tumbling into the lake. Erik had said he had gotten rid of the alligators, but still…you couldn't be too careful.

When she reached the opposite shore, she was surprised to find that out of the seven thousand and sixty-two candles Erik owned, none were lit. Groaning, Chelsea retrieved a matchbook from underneath the organ and started lighting a few candles. She knew that Erik was hiding somewhere behind her; she could hear him breathing, even though it was very quiet.

"That kiss wasn't in the script." Chelsea flinched, but stayed calm. Alarm bells were going off in her head, but she forced herself to keep her cool. She had gone over what she would say in her head as she returned home, but she still wasn't totally sure of herself.

"Yes, I know," she said coolly. "It was one of Monsieur Reyer's backup plans in case the entire thing went wrong and we had to wrap it up with something big. The performance really wasn't that bad, but still…it wasn't a bad addition." In her head, she congratulated herself on thinking up such a plausible excuse.

Erik stepped into the small pool of light. His face was expressionless. Chelsea hated that look. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself," he remarked. That one statement sounded so innocent, yet Chelsea could tell he was implying something.

"Did I?" she mused, lighting a few more candles. "Then my acting skills must be getting better, for I honestly hated every second of it." She paused, scrambling for something strong to say. "His lips tasted like overly-salted fish!"

To her dismay, Erik didn't say anything. Chelsea could feel his eyes burning into the back of her head. She wondered whether or not he could see through her.

"You do realize, Chelsea, that the same rule that applied when you were thirteen still applies now?" Erik said at last.

"What rule?" Chelsea asked, her heart skipping a beat. _Snap!_ Chelsea wheeled around and found Erik was holding two halves of a candle in one hand. He threw the pieces to the ground and advanced, his face no longer expressionless.

"Stop being coy, Chelsea!" he snarled. "You know exactly which rule I'm talking about!"

Chelsea flinched. She tried to regain her composure. "Oh, yes, um…that rule." She looked down at the broken candle, and her stomach did flip-flops. The necks of Erik's victims snapped exactly like that candle when he was angry. "Yes, of course it applies. I'm very…um…aware…er…why are you looking at me like that?" she whimpered.

Erik said nothing, his venomous glare doing all necessary communication.

"I swear there's nothing going on between me and James!" Chelsea shrieked, her father's expression making her lose it. "There never will be! I promise!"

For a long moment there was silence. Chelsea knew Erik didn't trust her. Finally he snorted and turned away, stalking off into the darkness. Chelsea sighed with relief and started off toward her room. She had just made some very interesting promises. Would she break them?

Instead of counting sheep, which never worked, Chelsea tried to get to sleep by reciting all the notes of her chromatic scale inside her head. But she kept getting distracted as visions of James shirtless raced through her head…

---

"Morning," Chelsea yawned. She sat down at the table and rubbed her bleary eyes.

"Good morning." Chelsea glanced up to see Erik sitting at his organ, which wasn't surprising. The thing that was surprising was that he wasn't playing or composing. He was just sitting there, staring at nothing.

Chelsea joined him on the bench. "What are you doing?" she asked quietly, frowning at the faraway look in Erik's eyes.

"Just thinking," Erik muttered, not looking at her. They sat in silence for a moment, and Chelsea wondered how many times they had done that. Billions, probably. Sometimes Erik just didn't like to talk.

"Well, there aren't any rehearsals today," Chelsea said tentatively, trying to break the silence.

"The opera house is flooded with reporters," Erik said dully. "You'll probably want to get up there soon or they'll never go away."

Chelsea sighed and rolled her eyes. "What fool of a person let them in?"

"Danderson."

"I should have known," Chelsea muttered. "I really don't like him."

"We'll just see about that by the end of the day," Erik said, snorting.

Chelsea looked at him suspiciously. "What do you know that I don't?"

Erik shook his head. "Nothing."

Chelsea stood up and started to walk away.

"Chelsea?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Have you ever wondered why you don't have a surname?"

Chelsea sat down again. "No. I don't have one because you don't have one."

"Let me rephrase that, then. Have you ever wondered why _we_ don't have surnames?"

Chelsea scratched her head. "Well, it strikes me rather odd that you never had one, and it does cause me a bit of trouble up there, but it's never really bothered me. Why?"

"No reason in particular," Erik murmured, the faraway look back in his eyes. "I never chose a last name because I rather enjoy defying the rules of the society that forced me into hiding. That and I would never in a million years take the name of my parents."

Curiosity stabbed at Chelsea like a knife. She leaned forward, asking, "What was their last name?"

Erik shot her a sideway glance. "Destler. Why?"

Chelsea shrugged. "Just curious."

Erik shook his head. "The damned insatiable curiosity," he muttered under his breath.

"_What?_" Chelsea asked, thoroughly confused.

"Nothing! Just…just go, Chelsea."

---

"Ah, Chelsea!" Danderson shouted. "There's our pretty little star!"

Cameras flashed from all around the foyer, and Chelsea was immediately blinded beyond comprehension. Seeing stars, she stumbled backwards into someone's arms.

"Good morning," James whispered in her ear. "It seems the media has gone rather mad."

Chelsea shook her head, trying to clear her vision. "It appears so," she muttered darkly. "This seems like a bad way to begin the day."

James released her, chuckling, and walked away, pushing through the reporters toward the front doors. A second later Danderson had thrown his arm around Chelsea's shoulder, grinning broadly.

"Smile for the cameras, Chelsea!"

Chelsea blinked on purpose, barely suppressing a smirk when the photographers groaned.

"Well, mademoiselle," Danderson said loudly, "I hope you got plenty of sleep last night, because everybody wants to know all about you!"

"My apologies, monsieur, but I need to take care of some business," Chelsea said, trying to wriggle out of his firm grasp. She suddenly had the urge to be anywhere but here.

"Your business is here," Danderson hissed. Then, back to his loud, overly cheerful voice, he said, "The one thing the whole of Paris wants to know is…what is your last name?"

"Huh?" Chelsea gaped at him. Surely he didn't just ask what she thought he did?

"Your last name," Danderson repeated. "Parisians agree there's a certain mystery behind it, and they're dying to solve the case! That is, unless you don't even have a surname…"

So Erik had been trying to warn her about this. Why couldn't he just have told Chelsea what was going on? That would have given her time to think up a plausible lie. Unable to think, she mouthed wordlessly, her mind working itself into a panic.

Danderson smirked and let her go. "As you can see, we get all types here at the Opera Populaire." He walked forward, addressing the reporters. "Some of our performers are gentry, like the well-known Vicomtess de Chagny. Many of our ballet rats, however, are orphans. Those who have parents are typically poor. And they're all rather…flirtatious, when they're not onstage. All of our stagehands are drunkards, bastards, and thieves. And sometimes we come across people like Mademoiselle Chelsea here, poor, homeless, disowned by their family, and most likely sluts. However, we are able to-"

"Destler!"

Danderson turned around. "Pardon?"

Chelsea stomped over to him, fuming, shaking with rage. "My surname is Destler!" she screamed in his face. She stomped on his foot, just for good measure, and ran from the foyer. She ignored all cries of, "Chelsea, what's wrong?" and sped away toward the cellars and the subterranean lake. Working herself into a raging fury, she launched herself into the gondola and punted herself across the lake.

"You filthy, low-down, conniving, poor excuse for a British gentleman!" she shrieked, her powerful voice echoing off the walls. She drove her pole hard into the bottom of the lake. "You will not get away with this!" she screamed, pushing the pole even harder. "You'll get what's coming to you, you no-good, publicity-loving- AAAAAAAAAH!"

She had slammed the pole into the lake bottom and vaulted herself out of the boat, landing in the water with a splash. Thankfully, the water was shallow and she was able to stand. She scrambled to her feet, spluttering angrily, and kicked the boat. It turned over and sunk to the bottom. She now also had a throbbing pain in her big toe. Screaming furiously, Chelsea sloshed through the water.

When she finally reached the shore she discovered that Erik was gone. She hoped he had gone to strangle Danderson. She stomped ashore, soaking wet, and once again screeched in anger. She kicked over a few candelabras, but then realized she had set fire to the rug and had to stomp it out.

Seething, Chelsea snatched up her violin from an end table and launched into a ferocious, raging improvisation. Her anger hadn't even started to ebb away when she heard a loud _twang!_ Two of the violin's strings had snapped.

This time roaring in anger, she slammed the violin onto the table and flung the bow away, not caring where it went. She stomped over to the organ and beat the keys with her fist, taking pleasure in the loud, angry sounds it seemed to make. Roaring again, she whacked the keys with her head, adding a searing pain in her forehead to the one in her toe.

Breathing hard, she rested her head on the keys, staring at the ground. She noticed a leather case tucked carefully under the organ. She picked up the case, brushed off about an inch of dust, and stared at it. Stamped across the case in gold letters was the title _Don Juan Triumphant!_

Aha. The score of the infamous opera, hidden away to all but its creator. No doubt Erik would become very angry if he saw her looking at it. With that thought in mind, Chelsea smirked naughtily and opened the case, flipping through the score until she found an interesting-looking song. _The Point of No Return_.

Chelsea placed the score on the stand and began to play. Normally she would have messed up on the second note, as the organ wasn't her best instrument. But with this one particular song, her hands seemed drawn to the correct keys. Glancing up every once in a while at the lyrics, Chelsea became intrigued. What could cause her father to write something as…_naughty_ as this?

Soon she found she was sucked into the music. She couldn't have stopped, even if she had wanted to. An enraged madness, a bolt of insane energy seemed to course through her, and she pounded the keys, playing well over the fortissimo level.

_When will the blood begin to race…_

Chelsea's blood was indeed racing. She had no idea why. She suddenly became very dizzy, her vision blurring, her head spinning. She continued to play, no longer needing to see the notes in front of her. She could hear the rest of the orchestra. Not just in her head, but for real. The violins were whining in her ear, the cellos weaving their harmony around her head.

_When will the flames at last consume us?_

With that, the flames consumed Chelsea, and she spun into darkness.

The music was still there. And now she could see. Her vision was terribly blurry, but at least she could see. She was sitting in a velvet chair, dressed in an expensive gown. There were people all around her, deathly quiet and on the edge of their seats as they listened to the music. She looked up and saw the stage. It looked different from the stage she knew. She couldn't see very well, but she could tell that this stage was larger than the one she had performed on. The set was interesting, to say the least. There was a large bridge in the middle, rather like the part from the set of _The Island of Dance_. The bridge stretched across an imitation bonfire. Two figures were winding up two spiral staircases that were attached to the bridge. The acoustics were very different from what Chelsea remembered. They were better acoustics. The music lacked the annoying echoes Chelsea was familiar with.

She tore her eyes away from the performers and glanced upwards, expecting to see a chandelier and ugly rafters. Instead, she was greeted by a masterpiece on the ceiling, a masterpiece of what seemed to be painted angels. The chandelier was there, but it was a different chandelier from the one she remembered. Without the rafters the music sounded much smoother as it traveled through the theater.

"_Past the point of no return!_"

The music reached yet another crescendo, and Chelsea's eyes snapped back to the performers. They had met in the middle, and the man was holding the woman against him. Chelsea squinted at the performers. She couldn't see their faces, but it looked like the man was wearing a black mask. She supposed that was part of the costume.

"_We've passed the point of no return…_"

Chelsea watched, enraptured, as the man caressed the woman lovingly. The music got slower, and the lyrics were so sweet they made Chelsea want to cry.

"_Anywhere you go, let me go, too!_

_Christine, that's all I ask of-_"

For some reason he never got any farther. The audience members around her gasped and screamed. Chelsea couldn't see what was going on; her vision was too blurred. Before her eyes, the performers disappeared. Chelsea gasped as they fell through a trapdoor and into the pit of fire on the stage. Then she heard a loud jingling overhead, and looked up.

The chandelier was crashing down toward her! She screamed, scrambling up from her seat, but it was no use. The candles burned into her eyes as the hulking mass of gold and crystal fell, gaining speed as it dropped down toward the helpless audience. Then it hit, and Chelsea was slammed into a deep, dark, blackness.

Chelsea jerked awake and screamed. She unstuck her head from the organ keys and shrieked, "Daaaaaddyyyyyyyyy!"

"I'm here, Chelsea. Right here!" Erik was at her side instantly.

Chelsea threw her arms around him, crying into his shoulder. "I…I had the m-most terrible d-d-dream!" she sobbed.

"Shh, calm down," Erik whispered comfortingly, smoothing down her hair. "It was only a dream."

"But it seemed so real! It was terrifying!" Chelsea hiccupped, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I would think so, falling asleep after playing that," Erik muttered, glaring at the score. "Would you care to tell me about this nightmare?"

Chelsea gulped, then started to tell Erik everything that she had seen.

"I was in a theater. It was different from the one upstairs. Two actors were performing that song, and I couldn't really see them but I could feel the passion! Then the song got slower. The man was singing to the woman, who was playing a character named Christine, and he stopped so suddenly! I don't know why, but everyone started screaming, and the man and woman disappeared! They fell right through the floor, through the stage! There was so much fear and hate in the air! And the chandelier fell down and crushed me!" she concluded, sobbing again.

"Why were you playing that?" Erik hissed scornfully, glaring at the score.

"I'm sorry!" Chelsea wailed. "I couldn't stop myself! I was so furious, and I wasn't thinking, and I'm just so sorry!"

Erik sighed heavily. With a grunt, he picked Chelsea up and carried her to her room like he did when she was six. He set her down on the bed and tucked her in.

"What you saw and what you heard was a dream and nothing more," he told her, his voice wavering slightly. "Try and relax. Go to sleep, it's late." He left abruptly, leaving Chelsea alone to wonder why he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

---

"Yes, the original opera house had a painted ceiling over the audience," Meg huffed impatiently. "Why?"

"I needed to know," Chelsea said, wringing her hands. "Can you _please_ tell me what happened that night when _Don Juan_ was performed?"

"No!" Meg snapped, turning her back on Chelsea. "I don't know what happened! All I know is the Opera Ghost performed in it and dropped the chandelier on everyone, okay?"

"That's not true!" Chelsea protested. "If you don't know anything then how do you own his mask?"

Meg stiffened, then turned to glare at Chelsea. "I'm not telling you anything," she said softly, but still menacingly. "You may be cocky knowing that you're safe from him, but I value my neck! There have been too many accidents, Chelsea. I'm sorry." She walked away, disappearing among the crowds of people on the stage.

"What happened to you yesterday?" James asked, coming up behind her.

"That piece of filth insulted me and embarrassed me in front of the reporters," Chelsea said, jerking her head in the direction of Danderson. She walked out onto the stage, sweating from the intense backstage heat. "It was probably all over the newspapers today."

"It was," James confirmed. "I read a couple of the newspapers…they all said Danderson was in the middle of this big huge speech and you interrupted him, stomped on his foot, and left. What was that all about?"

"He insulted practically everyone under this roof!" Chelsea pointed out angrily. "He called me a slut!"

"_What?_"

"You heard me! I think we should tie him up on the catwalks with an apple in his mouth," Chelsea grumbled. "Opera Ghost fodder."

"Or perhaps Phantom Angel fodder," James said quietly, gazing off into space. "She is rather touchy about those things."

"I suppose she is," Chelsea mused, raising an eyebrow at him. "James? Why are you so thoughtful all of a sudden?"

"I was only thinking that she would be the best…person, for lack of a better word, to ask," James said, taking Chelsea's hand as he strolled across the stage.

"Why?" Chelsea tried to sound utterly perplexed.

James took a while to answer. "Well…it seems like she cares. The Opera Ghost seems to care only about productions and business. The Angel actually cares about our well-being. It's kind of…sweet."

Chelsea had to fight hard not to gag. _Oh, Lord…he's falling in love with my alter-ego!_ "Do you know something about her?" she asked quietly.

James gave her hand a quick squeeze. "No more than you do. I promise."

_You liar. _Chelsea wondered how much James lied on a daily basis. Deciding the thought was unimportant, she brushed it away and changed the subject. "So what are you going to do after _Island_ is over?"

"I'm going back to being a stagehand," James said bluntly. "There's too much stress involved with being a singer. I'd rather just go back to ropes and ladders. What about you? Are you planning to audition for the next show?"

"For the ballet," Chelsea said. "I think I'll give singing a rest. I'll still be able to be Christine's understudy, which is just fine for me. Besides," she added as an afterthought, "my father doesn't really like me to sing. He lets me, but he really doesn't like it."

"I like it," James told her, smiling and raising his eyebrows. "Especially those…er, _dramatic_ parts."

Chelsea giggled, knowing exactly which parts he meant. "Oh, really? The dramatic parts? Which ones?"

"One dramatic part in particular," James murmured, stopping in his tracks. He took Chelsea's other hand and pulled her toward him. "That one particular part where we joined at the middle of a bridge in the darkness, singing passionately…"

"Ohhhhh, _that_ part…" Chelsea wrinkled her nose cutely. James chuckled and touched his nose to hers.

"ACK! No PDA's!"

Chelsea turned around and glared. "Belle, what on earth is a PDA?"

"Public Display of Affection," Belle informed her, staring at her as though she were an icky centipede. "And they're really no fun to watch." The other ballet girls murmured their agreement.

Chelsea rolled her eyes. "Well, you could just not look."

"Go ahead and start stretching, girls," Meg called, striding toward them. "Chelsea, James, go see Monsieur Reyer and warm up."

Chelsea and James joined the other singers at center stage and warmed up with a few bars of the opening song. While she sang, Chelsea looked upward at the ceiling and wondered what kind of stupid architect would put rafters in a theater. Obviously someone who had no idea what acoustics were!

---

James wandered aimlessly around the darkened stage, thinking. He was no longer on the night shift, as the managers had gotten rid of it when he got the part of Ben. He was waiting hopefully, although his faith was beginning to dwindle. It had been five days since the opening performance of _Island_. He had stayed late at the opera house every night, hoping he would be visited by the mysterious Phantom Angel. He had been disappointed every time.

He sighed and checked his pocket watch. It was past midnight, and he needed to get home. Otherwise he would be tired for the next day's rehearsal and performance.

"Still here, I see."

James jumped looking around for the source of the voice. "Yes, I am," he said to the room at large, not knowing in which direction he was supposed to speak. "Um…where are you?"

The Phantom Angel laughed. Lightly, softly, mysteriously, she laughed. "I am everywhere, lad. Surely you know that by now?"

"Where have you been?" James asked, realizing too late that he was sounding selfish. "I…I've been here for the past five nights. You never showed up."

"I was waiting for you to deflate your head."

James blushed profusely and massaged his forehead. "I suppose…maybe…I've gotten a little…cocky."

"A little?" James wheeled around- the Phantom Angel had appeared right behind him. "That doesn't exactly cut it. Parading around the opera house with the chorus girl on your arm, posing for the reporters, spontaneously bursting into song? Be more humble, Monsieur James. Remember- you were only a stagehand before _Island_." Her blue eyes glittered dangerously in the dark, and even though she was several inches shorter than he was, she seemed to tower over him.

James bowed his head. "I apologize."

"You are forgiven." The Angel started pacing in front of him. "You performed very well in the opening performance, although you seem to lack confidence." James half-listened, watching the Angel's dark, curly hair flounce behind her as she walked. "You mustn't let the audience scare you. You have to jump out there and _grab_ the opportunity! Be aggressive! Grab it! Can you do that?"

James nodded. "Yes."

"Good." The Angel continued to pace. "Be more confident, and grab the opportunity."

On some weird impulse, James leaped forward and caught up the Angel, swinging her around in a circle before letting her fall halfway to the ground, catching her at the right moment. "Like that?" he asked softly, grinning devilishly into the Angel's face.

She was shocked, to say the least. She mouthed wordlessly, anger creeping into her pretty features. Finally she spluttered, "You are very rash, Monsieur James!" She regained her composure. "May I _please_ get up now?"

James pulled her back to her feet, wondering why the devil he had done what he did. The angel brushed off her dress, then acknowledged him.

"Yes, like that. Although I would prefer if you didn't do that from now on. I'll leave you to go home and rest, but remember what I said. Be more humble."

The Phantom Angel took her leave, disappearing into the shadows. James sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. What on earth had possessed him to do something that stupid? He hadn't been able to stop himself. He had felt, for a moment, like he was looking at Chelsea.

"Hold it!" James muttered, removing his hands from his face. He frowned. "No. It couldn't be…" He shook his head, but the thought remained. He stood up and started on his way home, trying to forget the insistent theory. But he couldn't.

---

A/N: For some reason this chapter was extremely hard to write. But I think I got my point across. Chelsea's getting ideas about _Don Juan Triumphant_, Christine's getting ideas about Chelsea, James is getting ideas about the Phantom Angel, and Erik's realizing what's going on between Ben and Lyssia. We are getting closer and closer to PWEC! In case anyone was wondering, this part of the story takes place toward the end of November. Christmas and the New Year's Masquerade are coming up. Let's see, where did I put that mistletoe? I chose Destler as Chelsea's last name because I really like it. It has a nice ring to it. I'm not entirely sure which version of _Phantom_ it came from, but I'm borrowing it.Please be kind and leave me a review, let me know how I'm doing. I apologize for not updating very quickly, but after-school band rehearsals have started up again, so I'm very busy. Not to mention all that stress over the week about my journalism article…whoops. Wrong story. Anyway, please review! Thanks for reading!


	12. Holiday Season

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is not mine.

Chapter Eleven

_The Island of Dance_ proved to be a very popular show among the inhabitants of Paris. The cast was welcomed by a full house at every performance. After the first performance Chelsea stopped forgetting her lines, making her a very happy little soprano. _Island_ ended with a bang and was sure to be performed again very soon. In the meantime, the cast of the Opera Populaire auditioned for the next production.

"I agree that it was rather unfair for me to choose roles without holding fair auditions," Meg announced to the ballet girls. She had demanded that everybody stop calling her "Meg" and start addressing her as "Mademoiselle Giry." Nobody except the little girls who were training to become ballerinas called her that; everyone else was too used to just calling her Meg.

"The management has forced me to return control of auditions and choreography to Monsieur Reyer," Meg went on dully. "My only responsibility is the ballet. So, we will begin auditions today, as planned, for the upcoming production. Any volunteers to go first?"

There were enough parts for the entire corps de ballet, but some parts were definitely better than others. The new production had a tropical theme, since tropic themes seemed to be popular. Chelsea and Belle secured themselves excellent roles as background dancers who were destined to be clad in skimpy grass skirts. It seemed like the ballet rats never had any decent costumes…

James had returned to being a stagehand, just as he had said he would. Chelsea had warned him that her father didn't approve of their relationship, and things had drastically cooled down between them. She hardly ever saw James any more, and it was starting to worry her. Was he avoiding her intentionally?

Preparations for the production were put on hold, as it was December and time to prepare for the annual New Year's Masquerade. The ballet would perform the traditional song "Masquerade" at the ball, and then go home or retreat to the backstage area to celebrate with everyone who hadn't been invited to the fancy ball. To her surprise, that didn't include Chelsea this year.

"Belle, look!" Chelsea squealed, running through the crowded dressing room and waving a gilded invitation happily. Belle snatched the invitation from her hand and skim-read it, her eyes growing wider by the second.

"Wow, Chelsea! That's amazing!" Belle cried, handing back the invitation. "I can't believe you actually got invited!"

"Neither can I," Chelsea admitted. "Usually it's only aristocrats and such who get invited."

"But then again, you sure swept everyone away in _Island_," Belle said thoughtfully. "They're probably recognizing you for your performance. It'll be fun!"

"I'm sure it will be," Chelsea giggled. "Now I have an excuse to get an even better costume."

"Who are you going with?"

The question left Chelsea speechless. "I…hadn't really thought about it," she said, frowning.

"You should go with James," Belle advised. She sat down on a crate and laced up her ballet slippers.

"I don't know," Chelsea said hesitantly. "He's been avoiding me, and I have no idea why. I can understand that he'd want to put a little space between us- _figuratively_, Belle!" she added impatiently when a look of disgust crossed her friend's face. "But I really can't see why he would stay away this long."

"I saw him kissing a maid the other day," Rose Mahler, another ballet rat, informed her as she powdered her nose.

"Mind your own business, Mahler!" Belle snapped.

"Keep your wig on, LeSeverest," Rose said contemptuously. She stalked away.

"Come on," Belle sighed. "Don't pay her any mind. She's just trying to get under your skin. We should hurry up before we're late."

Chelsea washed her face before leaving, huffing impatiently at her reflection in the mirror when she saw that the horrible acne she had acquired had still not gone away. Curse the mask and its prison of sweat!

"I don't think it's going to get any better if you stare at it," Belle told Chelsea while she tied back her friend's black, curly hair with a blue ribbon. "If anything it'll just get worse."

Chelsea sighed. "Let's go. The others are leaving."

The backstage passages were filled with the fumes of wet paint. The stagehands were creating the sets for the new production. The ballet rats weaved in and out of the set pieces, carefully avoiding the wet paint. Rose pushed past Chelsea and Belle with an air of disgusting arrogance.

"Nice face, Destler."

"Nice ass, Mahler!" Chelsea snapped.

Rose turned back and stared at her, confused.

"Go on, look at it," Chelsea prompted, lifting her chin. Slowly, Rose turned her head around to look at her backside- and shrieked.

"I wondered why all that paint from the palm trees was missing," Belle laughed as Rose ran away, trying to cover up the brown mess on her skirt. "Brava, Chelsea!"

"That's what I hate about last names," Chelsea muttered. "People call you by them."

"What other purpose would they serve?" Belle questioned.

Chelsea shrugged.

Rehearsals went smoothly, as most of the girls knew "Masquerade" already. Meg focused on choreography. Chelsea loved the part when they used fans. It was just so fun and dramatic!

"All right, that's good for now," Meg announced. "Everybody can take a lunch break- one hour!"

Chelsea wiped her brow and wandered backstage. She heard the sound of someone humming the song she had just finished belting out. She followed the voice as it drifted back toward her. The voice belonged to a person she could pick out of any crowd. It was her stagehand.

"Bonjour, Monsieur James," Chelsea said happily as she spotted James sitting on a ladder. She skipped over to stand next to him.

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Destler," James said quietly, staring at the knot he was trying to untie. Chelsea's smile faltered. Since when had James stopped using the familiar nicknames?

"Are you all right, James?" Chelsea asked. James grunted in reply.

"The managers lost their minds and invited me to the Masquerade," Chelsea said, her voice trembling slightly. "Did they invite you?"

"Yes," James said, sounding and guarded. His eyes wandered around the rafters. Chelsea wondered what on earth he was looking for. Then she realized…

James was looking for the Phantom Angel.

Of course! He wasn't stupid enough to disobey her order to stop making a fool of himself, parading around like an aristocrat. James was apparently willing to give up anything and everything to please the ghost. Obviously he had taken the order to seriously and decided to drop anything that might remotely go against the Angel's warning. But the Phantom Angel had never mentioned anything about not having a relationship with anyone…had she?

Maybe it was just James' choice to act that way. Was it possible that he liked the Phantom Angel more than he liked Chelsea? Was that good or bad? What a confusing thought…

Chelsea sighed. She cast a sideways look at James, who was casting a sideways glance at her. They stared at each other that way, awkwardly, for a moment.

"Who are you going to the ball with?" James asked nonchalantly, returning to his knot.

"No one," Chelsea said slowly.

James raised his eyebrow at her. "Nobody asked you? I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, well, plenty of people have asked me," Chelsea said quickly. "I just turned them all down."

"Why?" James still sounded like he didn't care.

"Because I was waiting for the right person," Chelsea said quietly. _Please take the hint!_

"Hm," James said, finally getting the knot undone. "Well, I wish you luck with that."

Chelsea bit her lip and walked away, resisting the urge to slap James across the face. No one could possibly be that oblivious; he was turning her down on purpose! Chelsea wiped a tear from her eye and sniffled.

"Ah…Chelsea?"

Chelsea glared back at James over her shoulder.

"Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Masquerade Ball?"

Chelsea continued to glare at him. How could he possibly expect her to accept his invitation now? Then she sobbed loudly and ran into his arms.

"I thought you wouldn't ask me!" she wailed.

"Sorry," James apologized, patting her back. "I was being stupid."

Everything was better now.

Or was it? Chelsea couldn't help feeling small pangs of doubt. Maybe it was just her imagination, but something deep-down told her that there was something up with James.

---

The night before Christmas Eve was the coldest Paris had seen in years. It was absolutely freezing in the house across the lake, but Chelsea had buried herself underneath several blankets and was sleeping soundly.

"Chelsea, wake up!"

Chelsea opened her eyes and blinked a few times. Then she pushed her head out from under the blankets- and immediately tucked it back in again. The air was as cold as ice!

"Chelsea, you must see this!"

Groaning loudly, Chelsea crawled out of bed and pulled on both her robe and her warmest cloak, not forgetting her slippers. She padded grumpily out to the lake shore.

"I mean no disrespect, but I seriously do not appreciate being woken at such an ungodly hour and at such an ungodly temp-" She broke off, her eyes widening at the sight before her. The entire lake, as far as she could see, was one big sheet of ice. "Wow."

"It's very thick ice," Erik commented, walking around on it. Chelsea joined him, sliding a bit.

"Has this happened before?" she asked.

"A few times," Erik told her, peering off across the lake. "It hasn't happened for a long time, though."

"Do you think they might try to raid us?" Chelsea asked, also peering through the gate at the misty expanse.

"Some of the brave ones might," Erik murmured. "I don't think we can safely melt the ice. We should probably set up a few traps."

"Er…nonviolent traps?" Chelsea asked hopefully. "Can we please not kill them? It's Christmas Eve, after all."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." Erik sounded unconcerned. "Well, if it bothers you so much then we won't kill them."

Chelsea shuddered. "Thank you."

They quickly set up a few of what Erik liked to call Human Mousetraps. They were designed to catch and cause significant discomfort, but no real pain or death. Chelsea hoped she wouldn't forget they were there and get caught. She remembered the time she had fallen into the water trap in the spiral staircase…it would have been nasty had Erik not shown up.

Then, as Chelsea couldn't get back to sleep, she decided to make the other ballet rats miserable as well. It was six-thirty. They should be awake, whether it was a holiday or not.

"I have become aware of the fact that some of you are not aware of what day it is," Chelsea announced loudly, pushing her way into the dormitory. "For those of you who do not own a calendar…IT'S CHRISTMAS EVE! WAKE UP, YOU LAZY-" She neatly sidestepped a pillow that was thrown at her.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Belle shrieked at her, hair sticking up at odd angles.

"It's approximately six forty-five," Chelsea informed her, "fifteen minutes past the time you would wake up on a regular day. It's also very cold, so I would recommend cloaks as you get out of bed." She cleared her throat. "_Ahem_…as you _get out of bed_."

The girls buried their heads in their pillows.

Chelsea shrugged. "Fine, then. Just know that you won't be getting any breakfast. The dining hall's already packed with stagehands, the ballerinas-in-training, the older ballet rats, and all the others. And I'm sure you won't want to miss the festivities. Tree-trimming, caroling, drinking hot cocoa and watching the _snow_ fall…"

"It's snowing?" somebody mumbled.

"Oh, yes," Chelsea assured them. She strode over to the window and threw the drapes aside, revealing a downpour of white, fluffy flakes. "I do believe it's starting to stick." She knew it wouldn't have worked with the older members of the corps de ballet, but for those who were in this dormitory and weren't so old yet that they lost all their childhood interests, snow was not something to miss.

Finally surrendering, the ballet rats got out of bed and dressed warmly. Chelsea accompanied them to the small dining hall and shared a few croissants with Belle.

"Why do we decorate the inside as well as the outside?" Belle asked, rubbing her eyes. "We put on our display for the public. Why must we continue our hard labor for something that'll only be up two or three days?"

"Well, Parisians are encouraged to stop by and hear some caroling," Chelsea mused. "We couldn't very well do that outside. And anyway, who wants to spend their Christmas in some dusty, drab old place? I prefer the grand, magnificent Opera Populaire in all its holiday splendor!"

Belle nodded in agreement. "You're right. Now that I think of it, it's really nice seeing all the Christmas trees and everything."

The rest of the day was for the most part spent decorating the interior of the opera house. It was a tradition among the inhabitants and a few of the stagehands. The exterior had been decorated weeks ago for public enjoyment. A large Christmas tree was set up on the stage as no one would be rehearsing. The tree was decorated with baubles of all kinds, which mostly came from the corps de ballet. Miles of garland had been salvaged from a previous production and strung throughout the entire backstage area. Candles were placed everywhere, especially in the chapel. The setting was very merry, as were the moods of just about everyone.

The chorus took turns singing Christmas carols in the grand foyer. Parisians would stop by on the pretense of warming themselves or snagging a free hot beverage, but they would stay to hear the singing.

At half past noon the youngest ballet girls, the ones who were still in training, burst out the front doors (knocking a few people over in the process) with their cloaks and hats and ran to the nearby park. There they built snowmen, threw snowballs at each other, made snow angels, and all those other things little children tend to do in the snow.

"I don't understand them," Chelsea muttered, looking at the gray sky. She and Belle had tagged along on a whim. "It's just another form of precipitation. They don't get this excited in the rain!" She glanced around, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She was very uncomfortable outside in daylight.

_Thump!_ A huge glob of snow hit her on the back of the head, knocking her hat off. Chelsea spun around to see Belle grinning impishly, holding an armful of snowballs.

"Oh, very ladylike, Belle!" Chelsea yelled, scooping up snow and launching it at her. Soon they were in an all-out war, battering each other with snow. It went on for about twenty minutes, until they collapsed in the snow, breathing hard.

"'Another form of precipitation,' indeed!" Belle giggled.

Chelsea shoved her playfully. They stood up, noticed that many of the ballet girls and several passers-by had been watching them, and turned away embarrassedly, hurrying back to the opera house.

That evening was reserved for the informal party. The youngest ballet girls ran off to bed early, dreaming about Santa Claus and the presents he would bring them. The others stayed up late, talking, dancing, singing, sitting by a roaring fire. James showed up toward the beginning of the party, eager for some fun after spending all day with his family.

"It was so boring that even my eccentric grandfather was bored!" James shouted to Chelsea over the din. "Believe me- that man can always find some way to entertain himself!"

All around Chelsea people were getting drunk. It was hard to resist a drink, especially since someone had brought out some of the finest wines of Italy. Chelsea sampled a few, but only sampled. She could imagine how angry Erik would be if she came home drunk. She shuddered at the thought.

The party wound down around midnight, and everyone who didn't live at the opera house went home.

"May I escort you home, Mademoiselle Chelsea?" James asked, bowing comically.

An alarm went off in Chelsea's brain. "Um, no, you don't have to do that!" she said, trying to sound casual. "I know my way home. Besides, you shouldn't you get home and get to sleep? Santa Claus can't come when you're awake!"

James chuckled. "Sure, Santa. It's no problem, Chelsea. Let me take you home."

After about ten minutes of going on like this, Chelsea surrendered and exited the opera house. She walked off toward the richer section of Paris, trying to remember everything about the family she had made up. Oh, why did she have to say that her father was rich? Rich, of all things! Chelsea formulated a quick and risky plan while pretending to react shyly to James' small talk.

She led him to the mansion of a rather reclusive aristocrat that wasn't well known. She knocked on the door, hurting her knuckles, and stood off to the side anxiously.

"Why did you knock?" James asked quizzically. "Can't you just let yourself in?"

"Father keeps the door locked," Chelsea said, blowing warm air on her hands. Before he could ask, she added, "And no, I don't have a key. I left it at home."

The door opened. To Chelsea's delight, a butler had opened the door. Before he could speak, Chelsea put an arm around his shoulder and shoved a fistful of money into his hand, trying not to let James see.

"There you are, old chap!" she said cheerfully, her eyes begging the butler to play along. "I was wondering where you were. Have a nice Christmas Eve? Good." She turned to James. "Well, I suppose you'd better go now. I'll see you tomorrow? At the opera house?" She stressed _at the opera house_, hoping James wouldn't come back to the mansion.

James nodded, shivering in the cold. "Good night, Chelsea." He kissed Chelsea's hand and jogged off into the snow.

Chelsea watched him until he turned the corner. Then she sighed with relief and let go of the butler. "Thank you," she said wearily. The butler was still staring at her as if she was crazy. "I'm very sorry about this. I promise I'll never come back here again." She thought for a moment, then shoved some more money into the butler's pocket. "If that young man comes back here, please tell him that I've moved, you don't know where, and you're working for someone else now. Merry Christmas!"

Chelsea sighed and made her way back to the opera house. The butler stood in the doorway, staring at his fistful of money and trying to decipher what had happened. He shook his head and closed the door, muttering, "Only in Paris."

---

Chelsea ran out onto the lakeshore, wearing a simple but elegant-looking green dress. She had a green ribbon in her hair, which tied the curly masses back so they spilled elegantly over her back. Chelsea swept her father up in a hug. "Merry Christmas!" she squealed.

Erik grunted impatiently. He had never been very interested in the holidays.

"I got you something," Chelsea said, ignoring his grumpy mood. She pulled out from behind her back a full bottle of the fine Italian wine from last night. She had snagged a bottle when no one was watching. It was now partly wrapped in paper and tied at the neck with a red ribbon. Erik's gaze softened immediately when he saw it.

"Thank you," he said quietly, smoothing down Chelsea's hair. "And Merry Christmas."

Upstairs people were exchanging gifts and greeting each other happily. Belle gave Chelsea two hair ribbons, one blue, the other silver. Chelsea presented Belle with a book of poetry by Edgar Allen Poe. Belle's screams of delight rang through the entire opera house.

Chelsea stopped by the Christmas tree on the stage to watch the little girls open their presents. They squealed happily as they discovered goodies from Santa. Chelsea grinned, knowing that not all the presents under the tree were from Santa Claus.

"Cute, aren't they?" Belle whispered, walking up next to Chelsea.

"Oh, are you done having your little fit?" Chelsea giggled.

"I was not having a fit!"

"I would call ricocheting off the walls screaming at the top of your lungs having a fit."

Belle waved it off with a flick of her hand. "Cut me some slack, it's Christmas. I really like your dress, by the way. It's so pretty!"

"Thank you!" Chelsea said happily, swishing the skirt. "I just thought it looked so Christmas-y."

Somebody called Belle's name, and she excused herself and ran off. Chelsea strolled around, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. Then her shoulders were accosted by a strong pair of hands.

"Merry Christmas, Mademoiselle Chelsea," James growled mischievously in her ear.

"_Joyeux Noël_, Monsieur James," Chelsea giggled, turning to hug him. They strolled through the opera house, chatting quietly. Just to be there, standing with James' arm around her waist made Chelsea feel like she had jumped over the moon. The couple paused outside one of the doors to the roof.

"Shall we?" Chelsea asked, nodding in the direction of the door.

"If you want to," James replied, smiling that special smile that seemed reserved just for her. They walked through the door.

"It's chilly up here," James commented, shutting the door behind them. It was very cold, especially since neither of them had coats.

"Then I suppose you'll be wanting these," Chelsea announced, disappearing behind a large statue. She pulled out a wrapped bundle that she had stashed underneath it and gave it to James, who unwrapped it eagerly.

"Wow, Chelsea! Thank you!" James pulled out an expensive winter coat and a brown scarf.

"I knitted the scarf myself," Chelsea told him sheepishly. "Can you believe that? I had to get Christine to show me how, because I had absolutely no idea."

"Well, that explains why this edge is so loose and tangled," James said gruffly, investigating one end of the scarf. He smiled at her. "I'm kidding, Chels. I love it."

Chelsea let out a sigh of relief. "Good," she said, draping the coat around his shoulders. "Because I probably would have pushed you off the roof if you didn't."

"You wouldn't dare!" James said, pretending to be shocked.

"Oh yes, I would!" Chelsea assured him.

"No you wouldn't."

"Yes, I would."

"No you wouldn't."

"Yes I would."

"Stop arguing so I can give you your present."

Chelsea shut her mouth immediately when James drew a velvet box out of his pocket. He held it out to her, saying, "Merry Christmas, Chelsea. I love you."

Chelsea opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was one of the prettiest pieces of jewelry Chelsea had ever seen, even after knowing Christine de Chagny so long. It was a hair ornament, a glass dragonfly. At least, the wings were glass. The beautiful, ornate body seemed to be made of real silver, studded with what appeared to be tiny emeralds. The wings were artfully shaped and consisted of green stained glass. Two tiny, blue gems served for eyes.

Chelsea gaped at it, her mouth moving wordlessly. Finally she found her voice. "It's beautiful!" she gasped. "Oh, James! You really didn't have to!"

"Yes, I did," James insisted. He took the dragonfly out of the box and clipped it into Chelsea's hair. "I just couldn't walk away from it."

"But how did you pay for it?" Chelsea asked, fingering the dragonfly gingerly.

"Simple. I sold the ugly coat that man I live with gave me, along with a few antiques that he never noticed went missing. I just got a raise, so that helped. My grandfather's been coming up with large amounts of money lately…it's very strange. He walks up to me and puts it in my hand, saying, 'Don't let old Fitzbugger get his hands on this, Charlie.' I've come up with about a thousand francs that way. I swear my grandfather gets stranger by the day…" James finished his explanation with a shrug and cheerful smile.

Chelsea wrapped her arms around him, snuggling against his chest. "Thank you so much, James. Few gifts have meant more to me than this."

"Chelsea, are you up here? Hello?" Belle pushed the door open and discovered her two friends. She immediately went red. Looking at her feet, she mumbled, "We're going to go soon, and I just wanted to let you know, so…" She trailed off, then turned and ran back down the stairs.

The rest of the morning was spent at church. There was a delightful Christmas brunch at the opera house, which was surprisingly good considering that Meg Giry had been in charge and her only helpers had been the ballerinas-in-training. After brunch, the employees of the Opera Populaire scattered and went about their holiday business. With nothing to do, Belle, Chelsea, and James strolled throughout the streets of Paris, armed with shovels. They shoveled snow away from where it blocked the doors of some shops and homes. They expected no pay and accepted none. There were plenty of awkward silences in which Chelsea and James stared at each other and Belle nervously started reciting poetry.

Finally getting sick of her two friends acting so disgustingly, Belle retreated back to the opera house, grumbling about "lovesick poodles." Later, James walked Chelsea back to the opera house. It was starting to get dark and very late, but neither of them felt like going home. Instead, Chelsea followed James as he seemed to wander pointlessly through the labyrinth of twists and turns.

"James, where exactly are we going?" Chelsea asked after a long period of boring small talk.

"I don't know," James answered. "Somewhere we can be alone. Somewhere that crazy poetry fanatic can't burst in on us."

Chelsea rolled her eyes. "I regret giving her that poetry book."

"So it was _you_ who gave her that!" James said accusingly. He chuckled. "Do you realize that the entire opera house is out to get you?"

"Yes," Chelsea said, shaking her head amusedly. "I daresay I can take care of myself, however."

James stopped abruptly. They were in a dark, dusty costume area that people seldom entered. It was full of junk from previous productions.

"Why'd you stop?"

"Look." James was looking at the ceiling. Chelsea glanced up and saw that there was mistletoe hanging above their heads. She had been looking for one second before James' lips connected with hers.

Surprised by the sudden and unexpected passion, Chelsea lost her balance and fell to the ground, dragging James with her. Chelsea had a giggling fit, and it was obviously contagious, because James started laughing, too.

"Are you okay?" he chuckled.

"Yes," Chelsea giggled. "Sorry." She pressed her lips against his.

It went on for quite a long time. They were locked together in a raging embrace of love and passion. James' hands were entwined into Chelsea's long, curly hair. Chelsea's arms were wrapped around James' neck, seemingly stuck there permanently. There was no end to the French kissing. Later, Chelsea wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that they were French.

Absolutely no rational thought occurred that night. All Chelsea could think about was how amazing of a kisser James was. All rumors and fearful theories of James not loving her were gone. How could he possibly not love her? It was, by far, the most ridiculous thing Chelsea had ever heard. It was completely impossible for James not to love her, the girl he was holding in his arms and kissing as if there was no tomorrow.

---

"_What the hell do you think you're doing?_"

Chelsea groaned and buried her face into James' shirt. It was warm, soft, and smelled like cologne.

"Did somebody find us?" James mumbled.

"Mm-hm," Chelsea grunted, not daring to look up at the angry ballet mistress that was hovering over them.

"Get up, now!"

Ruefully, Chelsea opened her eyes. Daylight was streaming through a nearby window. It illuminated the livid expression on Meg Giry's face. Belle was hovering tentatively in the background.

"On your feet, _now!_" Meg yelled.

Chelsea pulled herself to her feet, James following suit.

"You can get out of here before you get fired!" Meg shouted, jerking her head at James.

James squeezed Chelsea's shoulder and jogged away, looking back with a sorry expression on his face.

"What were you doing?" Meg bellowed. "No, don't answer that! _Why_ would you do something like that?"

"We didn't _do_ anything!" Chelsea interjected. "The other ballerinas get in far less trouble for much worse crimes!"

"You know the rules, young lady!" Meg hissed. "You're lucky I don't fire you now."

"Fire me?" Chelsea let out a harsh laugh. "I _dare_ you to fire me!"

"I suggest you lose the cocky tone," Meg said, her tone deathly quiet. "Your father won't be happy about this."

Chelsea took a step forward, her blue eyes flashing dangerously. "I know very well what my father will and won't be happy about," she hissed. "I suggest _you_ be quiet right now and keep your hand at the level of your eyes." She demonstrated it, her voice fraught with menace. "There's more than one ghost running around this opera house, and one of them, at least, has sympathy for the ballet rats."

Meg stepped backward, uncertainty flicking momentarily in her eyes. Then all the anger was back. "Just remember that your job is on the line, rat!" She turned and stomped away.

"Well, at least I wasn't a worthless ballet rat for over twenty years of my life!" Chelsea roared after her. She kicked a stray bucket, sending it flying down a nearby staircase.

Belle crept out from her hiding place. She didn't say anything, just looked at Chelsea questioningly.

Chelsea shrugged and sat down on some creaky railing.

Belle sat next to her, looking sympathetic.

Chelsea huffed, jerking her head in the direction that Meg went.

Belle nodded. Then she cast a sideways glance at Chelsea, one eyebrow raised.

Chelsea smiled sheepishly, shrugging.

Belle nudged her, grinning slyly.

Chelsea giggled, and so did Belle. Chelsea put her hands over her heart and sighed like a lovesick puppy. Belle sighed wistfully.

The two girls burst out in laughter, amazed at how they could have an entire conversation without saying a word.

---

That night was long, as some people were still in the partying mood. Nobody there had ever heard of celebrating the day after Christmas, but were eager to start with an all-nighter on the stage. Almost everybody fell asleep there that night.

Chelsea awoke groggily to find herself leaning over the back of a chair. She blinked around at her surroundings. James was sprawled on a pile of ropes, Belle was snoring softly on the catwalks, a few ballet rats were piled on top of each other at center stage, and Meg Giry was curled up in a ball, sucking her thumb. Yawning, Chelsea wondered what time it was.

With a jolt, she realized that this had been the second night in a row that she hadn't been home, and she immediately jumped up. She tiptoed through the masses of sleeping people and sped down to the house across the lake. There she was met by an imposing note.

_Chelsea,_

_I have gone to London for some business. I will be back as soon as possible. Know that you are in serious trouble and we will talk when I get back._

_-O.G._

Chelsea sighed and tossed the note to the floor. Hopefully Erik's temper would cool down by the time he got back. She didn't count on it. The clock said it was very early; the sun was starting to rise at that moment. Now that she was awake she couldn't possibly go back to sleep. Rehearsals didn't start until much later. Chelsea was bored. Very, very bored.

---

A young woman crept through the scungy alley, keeping a wary eye out for intruders. Most of the snow had melted the day before, although there were patches here and there along the ground. The gray-white mist created an eerie setting for her terrible task.

The woman crept forward, holding her bundle close. She darted toward the stairs of the Opera Populaire and looked around once more for any onlookers. She was alone. Nobody except her would be out at this time of day, when the sun had barely started to rise.

Spying an empty crate lying abandoned on the ground, the woman snatched it and dragged it over toward the ornate staircase. She laid the bundle inside of it and tucked the blankets tighter around her unfortunate cargo.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "There really wasn't any other way. I wish things could be different, but I can barely afford to take care of myself, let alone a thing like you. At least now you have a chance at life. Who knows, maybe you'll grow up to be a famous opera star, like I wanted to be." In her heart she knew she was speaking empty words. There was no hope for this baby anymore. Not in this winter cold, with all the other Parisians rushing around without a spare glance.

With a long sigh, she got to her feet and walked a few feet away. She turned to take a last look at the poor baby and found that she couldn't wrench her eyes away from the sight. She stood there for a long time.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She glanced up and gasped, her eyes growing as wide as teacup saucers. She had heard the gossip, read the stories in the newspaper, but never had she imagined that she might really exist!

Pristine white ballet slippers tiptoed forward, followed by the rustling of a fluffy, tutu-style dress and the swishing of a midnight blue cape. The Phantom Angel peered into the crate, her white mask unable to hide the confusion in her eyes. She glanced up at the woman, unbelieving.

The woman took a step backwards, fear gripping her heart. It intensified as the Phantom Angel spoke.

"What is wrong with you?" Oh, such a lovely voice! The most beautiful the woman had ever heard in her life. But the words were spoken with such anger and hatred that it was like a death sentence.

The woman opened her mouth, desperately trying to think of a reply, but the Angel cut her off.

"How dare you? You abandon this poor, pitiful child at the time when she needs you most? How _dare_ you?"

The woman squeaked, tears forming in her eyes. Oh, the guilt! It burned far hotter than any flame in hell.

The Phantom Angel drew herself up to her full height, seeming to tower menacingly over the cowering woman. She pointed away from her, stretching her arm all the way out. "Leave, now. Before I get angry." The woman hesitated, and the Angel glared. "_Now!_"

The woman scurried off, sobbing into her hands. The Phantom Angel watched her go, her cloak billowing out behind her in the wind. When the woman was out of sight, she kneeled down beside the crate and stroked the infant's fuzzy head.

"It's all right, little one," she murmured. "That hateful woman is gone now, and nobody's going to hurt you anymore. The Phantom Angel won't let anything happen to you, I promise." She sighed. "But what am I going to do with you?"

She glanced around at the empty street. There was no one there. Gingerly, the Angel reached into the crate and lifted up the infant, but quickly found that she needed to support the little thing's head. Were all infants this weak and fragile?

She wrapped her soft cloak around the baby girl and disappeared into the mist.

---

"Christine!" Chelsea cried, running quickly up the hall. "You're here at last!"

The prima donna in question pulled the key to her dressing room out of her handbag. She eyed the bundle in Chelsea's arms suspiciously. "What have you got there, Chelsea?"

"What does it look like?" Chelsea wailed. "I found her, out on the street!"

"You _found_ her?"

"Yes!" Chelsea nodded, still cradling the baby to her chest. "She was lying there in a crate outside the opera house. It looked like somebody had abandoned her!"

"When?" Christine asked, frowning. "It must have been pretty early, because it's seven o' clock now, and people are rushing all over the place out there."

"I was woken up early this morning," Chelsea whispered, her eyes wide, "by _her!_"

"Who?" Christine raised her eyebrow.

"_Her!_" Chelsea cast an anxious look around. "_The Phantom Angel!_"

Christine quickly unlocked the door. "Bring her in here, quickly!"

A little while later, Christine was sitting on a divan, feeding the baby from a bottle. Meg had joined them and was sitting next to Christine, cooing and making faces at the baby. Chelsea paced back and forth restlessly.

"Chelsea, won't you sit down? You're going to exhaust yourself," Christine chided her.

Chelsea shook her head. "I'm too upset to be calm and ladylike. Who would do such a thing like this? It should be a sin! Only a monster would abandon an infant to her death! Am I right?" She stopped pacing and glanced at Christine. With a shock she realized the woman was crying, silent tears running down her cheeks. "Christine? Are you all right?"

Without warning, Christine started sobbing loudly, cradling the baby against her breast.

"Christine, shh!" Meg whispered, patting her urgently on the back. "It's all right, just calm-"

"No!" Christine wailed. "It's not all right. I'm a horrible woman and an awful mother!"

"No, you're not!" Meg insisted. She got to her feet and pushed Chelsea out of the room. "She'll be all right, just leave us alone for a while," she whispered to Chelsea before shutting the door in her face.

Puzzled and bemused, Chelsea listened at the keyhole for a moment.

"I'll go to hell for what I did," she heard Christine sob.

"No, Christine!" Meg was telling her. "There was nothing you could do! She was going to-"

"Chelsea?"

Chelsea jumped, turning red. "It's not what it looks like!" she insisted, swinging around and finding herself face-to-face with James. "Honestly!"

"There are rumors going around that you found a baby on the street," James informed her, looking puzzled. "Is that true?"

"Yes," Chelsea sighed.

"How did you find her? People are saying that the Phantom Angel told you about her."

"She did," Chelsea confirmed.

"The Phantom Angel told you."

"Yes."

"The infamous, powerful ghost of this opera house woke you up to tell you so you could take care of it."

"_Yes!_"

"The _Phantom Angel_ told _you_ instead of doing it herself."

"Yes, James!" Chelsea shouted. "Why don't you believe me?"

James took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rolling his eyes. Then he seized Chelsea's hand and dragged her down the hallway.

"James!" Chelsea protested, starting to get really, really irritated. "James, where are you taking me?"

"Shush!"

Shocked at being snapped at in that manner, Chelsea shut her mouth and stomped after him. James pulled her away into a quiet, empty corridor.

"What is your problem?" Chelsea hissed at him, now extremely irked.

"You can stop pretending now, Chelsea," James said coolly. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You're the Phantom Angel, aren't you?"

Chelsea froze. No! No, no, no! This could not be happening! How did he find out? How could she possibly get out of this one? Chelsea was about out of lies. If she thought hard enough she could probably find one…

No. No, this had gone on too long. It was time to be honest. How could Chelsea possibly expect James to love her if she kept lying to him?

She sighed bitterly. "How did you find out?"

"I suppose I could just tell," James said quietly. "A mask could never hide you from me, Chelsea. I love you. Why did you lie to me?"

"Why did _you_ lie to _me_?" Chelsea challenged.

James raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"And I quote… '_I know nothing more than you do._'" Chelsea met his gaze evenly.

James' eyes widened. "Oh!" He scratched the back of his neck, going red. "I…um…sorry."

"Mm-hm." Chelsea shook her head. "I thought so. We haven't been entirely truthful to each other. Now we can start, though."

"You can start by telling me this," James said suddenly, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "If any, what relation do you have to the Phantom of the Opera?"

For a moment Chelsea was silent, rather unwilling to divulge any of that guarded information. But what choice did she have? "He's my father," Chelsea told him grudgingly.

"Wow." James gaped at her for a moment. Then he regained his composure. "Well, that explains a lot. Like, why when I returned to your house this morning your butler told me you had moved."

"Yes…I don't really live in a huge mansion," Chelsea admitted. "I live under the opera house, across the subterranean lake."

"That is amazing," James said, looking at Chelsea with wonder and respect.

A crazy idea wormed its way into Chelsea's brain. "James," she said slowly, "how do you feel about taking today off?"

James raised his eyebrow. "Meaning?"

Chelsea took his hands in hers and pulled, walking slowly backwards. "What do you think I mean, clever lad?" she replied in her best Scottish accent. She continued walking backwards, not looking away from James' eyes for a second. She counted her steps carefully. James was looking at her suspiciously.

"Where are we going?"

Chelsea whispered, "Just trust me." _19, 20, 21…_ She took an extra-large step backward. James didn't, and he fell through the trapdoor. Chelsea jumped in after him, landing, catlike, on her feet.

"Chelsea!" James' panicky voice called out. "Chelsea, where are you?"

She couldn't blame him for being scared. He had just fallen one hundred feet into a black darkness. "James, it's all right. Can you see my eyes?" Her eyes, like her father's, had always glowed brightly in the dark.

"Yes."

"Follow them."

Chelsea could see perfectly in the darkness. She saw James coming toward her. She walked backwards again, talking softly to him. She couldn't help messing with him a little bit. "_Two little stars, two little lights, glowing in the darkness, glowing in the night. Follow the stars, follow the voice, come, young tenor, and make your choice!_"

James was following obediently, like a lost puppy or little lamb. His eyes were misty and doe-like. Once Chelsea was sure he was following her, she turned and ran ahead.

"Chelsea!"

"_Follow the stars, follow the voice, come, young tenor, and make your choice!_" Chelsea briefly considered becoming a poet.

James was still stumbling along in the darkness, without even a wall to guide him. However, the only fear in his mind was that he might lose the voice that was floating back to him from ahead. It was beautiful, entrancing… He jumped when a soft, smooth hand grabbed his.

"_Follow the stars, follow the voice…_" Someone was whispering, whispering right in his ear.

Flickering light glowed ahead, like the light at the end of a tunnel. It was fire, burning on several torches. As he stepped into the light, he found he was standing on the shore of a glassy lake, stretching on and on into the darkness… When he turned around to look back at the way he had come, all he could see was solid wall. However, he could see the mask hovering inches away from his face…

"You are standing at the edge of the famous subterranean lake of the Opera Populaire," the Phantom Angel whispered, her blue eyes glowing mysteriously. "Who knows what secrets lurk across the water?" Her eyes blazed. "I do…"

Her fingers traveled down James' arm until they reached his hand, which she grasped tightly. Then she led him forward to where a small gondola was bobbing in the water.

----------  
A/N: Hi, people! I apologize for the extremely long wait. I just took a little break from writing during final exams and the last day of school. But as soon as I got out of school I became preoccupied with volunteering at Girl Scout camp, visiting relatives, and band camp. Yeah…I'm back now, and I plan on updating my other phic, The Hayfield Times, soon.

P.S. I was wearing a Santa Claus hat while writing this. Woohoo…Christmas in July! Happy Independence Day to my fellow Americans!


	13. Revelations

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. If I did, then I assure you- the story would have a much different ending.

A/N: Hey, folks! Here's the ridiculously late update. I've been very busy lately, and it seems like every time I get my writing juices going somebody interrupts me to make me watch news specials about college, do my blasted summer homework, or force-feed me Twinkies (don't ask). Well, here you go.

---

James stared around in amazement. He had only ever seen the subterranean lake from the shore. Nobody dared to go out into it for fear of traps set by the Phantom of the Opera. Yet there he was in the middle of the green water, mist hanging all around him and the small boat he was sitting in.

The water stretched as far as he could see in all directions. He could see no sign of movement except for the ripples caused by the boat and the long pole that his guide was rowing with.

The Phantom Angel was… something. James never knew exactly what to call her. Beautiful? Most definitely. But there was something behind the beauty that cloaked her with a shroud of mist… Was it the mystery? Most likely. But then she had that Scottish accent, which wasn't really mysterious as much as quirky… or was it quirky? Sometimes it sounded very attractive.

James shook his head to clear it. He could think about the Phantom Angel all day and never really decide who she was. That was even stranger now, because he did know who she was…or did he?

The boat came to a gentle stop. James looked up and gasped in astonishment. There was something like an island before him, but it was covered with furniture. It looked like a home, a home with open walls that sat on a lakeshore. The furniture all looked expensive, right down to the organ that sat in one corner. As far as he could see, the floor was made entirely of stone.

The Phantom Angel leaped out of the boat and landed gracefully on the shore. Then, with her long, pale fingers, she pulled the mask over her head and set it on a small table that sat nearby. Suddenly, she was Chelsea again.

Chelsea could tell that James was confused by all this. "Down here," she explained, gesturing at the mask, "masked is the best way to go." She leaned across the boat and offered James her hand.

He took it, and she pulled him up easily. Years of climbing around the opera house had given her an upper body strength that normal girls wouldn't possess.

"This is the house by the lake," Chelsea announced, taking off her cloak and tossing it haphazardly onto the table by the mask, "also known as the Phantom's Lair. This is my home."

"Um, Chelsea," James started, his face very pale. He swallowed, and then continued. "Chelsea, I don't think your father would very much appreciate me being here." He stepped closer to Chelsea.

She snorted. "Nonsense. He's off on a trip, out of the country." She grinned devilishly. "Don't worry, Jamesie, I won't let that mean old Opera Ghost get you!"

James rolled his eyes and looked around. "So there _is_ an organ down here," he murmured. "The other stagehands say they've heard organ music down here, but I never believed them."

"We don't only have an organ," Chelsea told him. "We've got every instrument known to man down here."

"Every instrument?"

"Yes, every instrument. You name it, we own it."

James scratched his head, thinking. "Um…bagpipes?"

Chelsea hesitated…and then snickered. "Well, we did once," she told him, "but my father got tired of me playing it all the time, and to this day it sits at the bottom of the lake." She giggled. Fond memories…

Chelsea took James on a tour of her home. She showed him all the instruments, the secret passage behind the organ, the room with the swan bed, and anything else of interest.

"This is my room," she announced, leading him through the door. "I always thought it looked like a cave because the walls are stone and the ceiling's kind of rounded, but there's not a lot I can do about that. This is where I do my creative work."

James was eyeing the violin that sat on her bed. "The ballet rats told me you could play well. Is it true?"

"Very," Chelsea assured him. "I've been playing since I was…oh, about seven. Six or seven." She frowned. "I would play for you if I could just find my stupid bow!"

James looked at her in that very annoying amused way, smiling slightly with one eyebrow raised. "You lost it?"

Chelsea could feel steam rising out of her head. "No!" she snapped. "I left it right next to the violin. Now it's gone."

He still had that stupid expression on his face! "Well, perhaps if you had put everything away properly you wouldn't have this problem."

She felt like clawing his eyes out. "Maybe you could help me find it instead of reprimanding me like my father," she said irritably. "Never mind, here it is." She snatched it out from under her bed and inspected it carefully.

James leaned against the wall. "If you had just put it-" His sentence was cut off as the wall swung inward like a door and he fell backward.

Chelsea gasped, the bow clattering to the floor. She raced to the doorway that had suddenly appeared in the wall. "Are you okay, James?"

James pulled himself to his feet. "Yeah, I'm fine." He looked through the darkness of the passageway he had discovered. "So where does this go?"

"I don't know. I never knew it existed." Chelsea peered into the darkness. "It goes on a long way."

"You never knew it existed?" James snorted disbelievingly.

"Ladies are taught to stand up straight and not slouch against the walls," Chelsea said, her nose high in the air. "Unlike the many stagehands who work here…"

James rolled his eyes. "Technically men are taught to stand up straight, too. I just don't."

"So…let's see where this goes." Chelsea set off down the passageway.

"Chelsea, wait!"

"What?" She turned to look at James.

"Shouldn't we get a candle or something?" he asked.

Chelsea sighed. "Oh, sorry. I forgot that you were afraid of the dark." She marched past him and snatched a candle off of her desk. "Can we go now?"

James shrugged and followed her through the darkness.

The passageway inclined steeply and went on for a long time. There were cobwebs all over it, and all manner of bugs. Once Chelsea thought she saw a rat. James appeared to be enjoying himself.

"This is really neat," he said eagerly. "Who knows where this might lead?"

"Hopefully not into a trap," Chelsea muttered.

"A _trap_?"

Chelsea didn't answer that. "I think it's leveling out."

"Really? Do you know where we are?"

"No." Chelsea looked around at him. "If I were to guess I would probably say over the lake, but I could be wrong. Besides, the lake is pretty big and I'm not completely sure that there's nothing living in it."

James' face fell.

"Not as fun as you thought, eh?" Chelsea chuckled and continued walking. The passageway had definitely leveled out, but upon whacking her head she had noticed that the ceiling was getting closer to the ground. The tunnel twisted and turned so many times that she lost count. She was just wondering how long they had been walking when the ground dropped out from under her.

Screaming, she plummeted down through the open air and landed with a loud SPLASH in the lake. It was one of the more shallow parts that only came up to her knees. But still, her poor dress was absolutely soaked!

James crashed down beside her, face first into the water. He sat up, spluttering and rubbing his sore nose.

"Whew! That certainly woke me up," he said, shaking his wet hair out of his face and staring at the trapdoor over their heads.

Chelsea looked around. They had landed just beside the gate that separated her home from the rest of the lake. They were probably twenty feet from the lakeshore, which didn't make sense when she thought about how long they had walked. It was probably just because there were so many twists and turns in the tunnel.

Sighing irritably, Chelsea pulled herself out of the water. "I'm going to change." She hoped that the Phantom Angel wouldn't have to make an appearance today, because a dripping wet ghost was hardly terrifying.

A short while later she emerged from her bedroom in a pink tutu, her hair tied up in a bun. James was trying to wring out his shirt. He looked up, startled.

"That was fast. I've heard that women spend the longest time getting dressed and made up."

Chelsea shrugged. "Actors and actresses have to be quick at changing. Or have you forgotten, Monsieur James?"

A small smile crossed his face at the mention of his nickname. "No, I haven't forgotten." He eyed her outfit. "What, no ballet slippers? I thought you were taking the day off."

"I was going to, but then I decided that I should really be at rehearsal," Chelsea said, slightly guiltily. "I'm pretty sure I know the routine, but then again, I have been known to forget things. Besides, Madame Giry is returning from her long vacation and will be attending the New Year's ball. I want to put on a good show for her. I owe her a lot."

James nodded and was about to say something, but Chelsea quickly slapped a hand over his mouth. She strained her ears. She couldn't possibly have heard what she thought she heard! She waited a moment longer, and heard it again.

A clang, so quiet she barely heard it. But it was there all the same. It was a clang she had trained her ears to recognize over the years. It was the clang of the iron gate on the north side of the lake, signaling that the master of the house had returned.

Chelsea hissed a very unladylike curse under her breath and sprang toward the organ, dragging a very bewildered James with her. "Don't say a word," she mouthed, her eyes flashing dangerously. She shoved him into the passageway behind the organ and clambered in after him.

"Chelsea, what's wrong?" James whispered.

Chelsea started climbing up the passageway, shooting an angry glare at James. Hadn't she told him to be quiet? "Get up here, and shut up!"

It was a long way up, and Chelsea was worrying that James wouldn't make it. But he proved to be defter than he looked. He made his way easily up the fifty foot chute, using the small notches cut in the sides. When they finally reached the top, he found his voice again.

"Chelsea, I _demand_ to know what's going on!"

Chelsea grabbed his hand and pulled him along the tunnel, desperately praying that the floor wouldn't give way and toss them into the lake again. "He's back early, James," she snarled, "and if he finds you here I swear I will be powerless to save your life. Now be quiet and _run_, damn it!"

It took James all of two seconds to realize who 'he' was. Even in the dark Chelsea could see that he had turned pale. He picked up the pace, and soon it was the stagehand who was dragging the ballerina along.

They didn't stop running until they reached the end of the passageway and had emerged through a secret door into a costume storage closet. Panting heavily after the long run, Chelsea laid her head on James' shoulder.

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "I should never have brought you down there. You could have been-"

James put a hand over her mouth. "I honestly don't want to hear it," he said quietly. He removed his hand and hugged her tightly. "I'm just glad that you heard him in time."

They stood there for a long while, reveling in the comfort of the other's arms. After a while Chelsea pulled away, smiling weakly. "I know it's not the best time to mention it, but you're really wet, James."

He snorted, laughing as he looked at his wet clothing. "I guess so. I'll find something to change into in here. You'd probably get to rehearsal before Empress Giry gets angry at you."

"All right," Chelsea sighed. She kissed him on the cheek and reluctantly exited the room. No sooner had she closed the door behind her than Belle had skidded to a halt beside her, panting and wide-eyed.

"Belle! What's-"

"Shh!" Belle hissed, staring around to make sure that the area was deserted. She glanced at Chelsea with a terrified expression. "You wouldn't have happened to see the newspaper today, would you?"

"No," Chelsea said slowly. She was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. "Which paper are you talking about?"

"_L'informateur Quotidien_," Belle whispered, pulling out the front page of said newspaper. "It's bad, Chelsea. Very bad."

Chelsea snatched the paper and stared at it in horror. Splashed across the top in big, bold letters was, "_Island Stars Heat Up!_" Below it was a photograph of her and James, his hand on her shoulder. Her eyes snapped to the article.

_The stars of the recent Opera Populaire production of _The Island of Dance _stole the show with a performance of realistic romance, but new evidence shows that what was believed to be acting is actually a fiery, passionate love affair._

Chelsea groaned. "Don't people have better things to gossip about?"

"Read on," Belle urged. "It gets worse."

Chelsea skimmed through the article, her mood getting darker with each slanderous word. At one point she gasped.

_A fellow member of the ballet confirms that a relationship exists. The insider, who wished to remain anonymous, said, "They're always sneaking off with each other, and the morning after Christmas they were discovered together in an unused storage area. Our dear ballet mistress was livid!"_

_However, the opera insider insists that the affair is not true love. "It's just the usual case of ballet rats flirting with the stagehands just for the sake of flirting," the insider said. "Everyone knows that Destler is just a prostitute masquerading as an opera star. All Saxone is doing is getting his money's worth out of it."_

Chelsea crumbled the newspaper into a ball. "Mahler!" she hissed, trembling with rage. She shot an angry glance at Belle. "Rose Mahler is behind this, I'm sure of it!"

"Sure of what?" James slipped out of the closet and joined them, now dressed in an inconspicuous costume from another production.

Chelsea straightened the newspaper and thrust it at him. "Educate yourself!"

James' eyes grew wide as he read the article. He glanced up. "This whole thing is a pack of lies!"

"It's libel!" Chelsea hissed. She swung around and started walking away. "Never mind, I really am taking the day off!"

Belle caught up with her and grabbed her arm. "No, Chelsea!" she protested. "Meg's already really angry that you're late, and she was shouting about how she was going to fire you!"

"And what about that speech you gave me about wanting to impress Madame Giry?" James asked slyly.

Chelsea sighed impatiently. "Fine. But if Rose Mahler has a mysterious accident and breaks her neck, you can't blame me!"

Meg was, as predicted, furious. "It's nice that you decided to show up!" she shouted at Chelsea. "Next time you might even be bothered to be here on time! You're three hours late, Chelsea! _Three hours!_"

"I'm sorry!" Chelsea said desperately, wishing that she had taken the day off after all. "Something came up, and-"

"Oh, yes. We all know what came up!" Meg grumbled. "We've all read the newspaper!"

Chelsea felt like she was going to explode. "The newspaper is wrong!" she hissed, shooting her most dangerous death glare at the ballet mistress. "Almost everything in it is a lie. I am offended that anyone would think that about me, especially a person I've known and worked with for years!"

Meg narrowed her eyes. "Get in formation." She walked away, shouting orders at her ballet.

Chelsea bit her tongue in order not to scream in frustration. Why didn't Meg believe her? And why did she have to rule her ballerinas with an iron fist? That was surely unnecessary. Did she want to take over the world or something?

"Chelsea, can I talk to you?"

Chelsea turned to see Christine de Chagny standing behind her. "Yes, of course!" She let Christine lead her away from the other ballet rats.

"I feel that you should know something," Christine began hesitantly, frowning slightly. "Although I need you to promise that you won't tell anyone."

"I won't tell a soul," Chelsea promised. Whatever Christine was about to tell her had to be serious.

Christine bit her lip. "Well, I don't want you take Meg too seriously. Not when she's turned into a raving lunatic. You ought to know that, about sixteen years ago when the opera house burned down, Meg hit her head when fleeing from the cellars. I don't know why she was down there, so don't ask. But she was unconscious for a few days, and she was never really quite right in the head again."

"Oh." Chelsea couldn't think of anything else to say.

"That's part of the reason why she hasn't gotten married or at least gotten a better job until now," Christine continued, staring into space. "People tended to treat her differently after her accident, and she's very sensitive about it. I think she wants to prove that she can be a normal person, and in doing that she tends to take control of everything. But she's just so sensitive about it. Promise me you'll treat her like a normal person." She looked at Chelsea with a pleading expression.

Chelsea nodded, a lump forming in her throat. "Of course." If she had known about Meg's accident she would have never called her a worthless ballet rat. It was all beginning to click now, why Meg sometimes seemed like she belonged in a mental institution, why she was always so bitter toward her elderly mother, why she was always so keen to shout…and why she always wanted to be in control of everything.

"Also, I wanted to ask you about that article in the newspaper," Christine said, breaking into Chelsea's thoughts.

"It's all a lie," Chelsea interrupted. "None of it's true. At least, most of it isn't true." She looked down. "The problem is that nobody believes me!"

"I believe you."

Chelsea could hardly believe her ears. "You do?" She looked up at the prima donna incredulously.

Christine nodded. "I find it very hard to believe that you're the person the newspaper makes you out to be," she told Chelsea. "And I know for a fact that _L'informateur Quotidien _has been printing out nothing but rubbish since it started. Just give it a week or so, and everything will blow over."

Chelsea smiled and hugged the prima donna. She was always so huggable. "Thanks, Christine."

Christine hugged her back. "And by the way, your baby was crying for you. You must come visit her when you're done with rehearsal."

Chelsea grinned. "How do you know she was crying for me?"

"I could tell," Christine said with a secretive smile. "I'm rather experienced in these things, you know."

Chelsea nodded. "That's very true. I'd better get back to rehearsal, but tell Nicky and Micah that I said hello."

"I'll do that." Christine lightly pushed Chelsea toward the rest of the ballet. "Now scat!"

Chelsea hurried away, but she paused momentarily as a sweet scent filled her lungs. What on earth… was that _vanilla?_ Chelsea inhaled deeply. Yes, it was. It smelled so familiar, and yet she couldn't quite place where she had smelled it before.

Chelsea rejoined the ballet and sneaked into formation just as the orchestra started playing. Dancing in heels was slightly difficult, but at least it wasn't real ballet. Chelsea happened to be standing right next to Rose Mahler. The other ballet rat shot a contemptuous glance at Chelsea and mouthed, "Slut."

Chelsea gritted her teeth and waited for the right opportunity. Just as Mahler spun around, she stuck out her leg and tripped her.

"EEK!" Mahler fell backward and knocked over two ballet rats.

"Shoes too big for you, Mahler?" Chelsea asked innocently.

"You brat!" Mahler sprang to her feet and was about to throw herself at Chelsea, but Empress Meg Giry intervened.

"Get back in line, and for God's sake, _do not_ do that at the ball!"

Chelsea smirked at Mahler and waited for the music.

"From the top, Monsieur Reyer!" Meg called to the maestro. Reyer struck up the orchestra, shaking his head as though he had seen better days.

Smiling triumphantly, Chelsea took a deep breath.

---

"_Masquerade! _

_Paper faces on parade!_

_Masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world _

_Will never find you!"_

Chelsea spun around, her heart beating quickly with excitement. So many people, so many costumes! The foyer was crowded with everybody who was anybody in Paris, and they were all wearing a mask and unique, unusual attire.

There hadn't been this many people attending the New Year's Masquerade Ball since before the opera house had burned down. Chelsea found it hard to concentrate on the routine when there was so much going on, but she tried her hardest. She could easily pick out Madame Giry in the crowd, muttering in her daughter's ear.

It was approximately nine thirty, according to the large clock that stood toward the edge of the foyer. Two and a half hours to midnight and the new year!

Finally, the break in the song came along, and Chelsea rushed down the ornate staircase, where James was waiting for her. He wrapped his arms around her and they danced along to the continuing orchestra.

"Isn't this great?" Chelsea shouted above the noise.

"It's excellent!" James agreed.

Chelsea looked around. A blue-robed wizard and a black-clothed witch danced by them, each with pointy hats. Even though they were masked, Chelsea knew that they were the Vicomte Raoul and Christine de Chagny.

Her eyes fell upon a black cat whom she knew to be Belle, standing with a white cat and a gray cat, who were both in the ballet. They all had mittens strung around their necks and were masquerading as the three little kittens who lost their mittens.

Of course, there were several girls wearing pink tutus with long, bald tails sticking out the back, whiskers painted onto their masks, and gray ears poking out from their hair. They were ballet rats.

Chelsea thought that James had, by far, the best costume. He was dressed as a Spanish swordsman, with a big, black hat, a black mask, black cape, expensive black clothing, and black boots. He also had a sword, the hilt of which was, of course, black.

She herself had gone as a dragonfly. That had been slightly difficult to do without looking ridiculous, but Chelsea had managed it. The expensive-looking frock was primarily green, but the bodice was adorned with silver and glass beads. Her mask was the same pastel green as her dress, and there were two curly antennae sticking out of the top. Attached to her back were a set of soft green dragonfly wings, carefully folded so that they were recognizable but didn't hit anyone. And of course, in her hair was the glass dragonfly, the model for her costume.

"You look beautiful tonight," James told her, smiling adoringly.

"And you look very handsome," Chelsea said, looking his costume up and down in interest. "Very black."

"I am _El Jinete de la Noche_," James said mysteriously, "The Night Rider."

"I like it," Chelsea whispered, gazing into his eyes, which were almost hidden by the mask.

"Judging by your costume, I suppose I can assume that you like your Christmas present," James said slyly.

Chelsea wrinkled her nose. "Indeed."

James looked around. "It's about time for the Grand Finale."

Chelsea winked at him. "I'm not in that part."

They inconspicuously made their way to the edge of the dance floor, heading toward a custodial closet. Then James spun Chelsea around, and she disappeared into the closet.

Luckily, there was nobody in it, and Chelsea didn't have to use her hammer to knock people out. However, she was sure that at least one couple would find their way in there by the end of the night. She pushed aside a few mops and opened a secret door in the wall.

The small tunnel ended in a closet-sized room that was just above the ornate staircase of the foyer, lit by a few candles. She had stashed there her other costume.

She struggled to get the heavy dress over her head, listening closely. The ballet was now performing the Grand Finale, and had already gone past the key change. She was running out of time!

Finally the frock landed in a heap at her feet. She slid off some of the extra things and pulled the white dress over her head. Next came the white ballet slippers. She tried to unfasten the glass dragonfly's clip, but it was tangled in her hair. Frustrated, Chelsea tried to yank it out, but only succeeded in hurting her scalp. She listened hard to what was going on below her.

"_Let the spectacle astound you…_"

A collective gasp met her ears as the music came to a screeching halt. Oh no! Chelsea fumbled with the hair ornament, panic making her mind go crazy.

"_Why so silent, good messieurs?"_

At last, the glass dragonfly came loose and she laid it carefully on top of the green frock. Chelsea hurriedly tied back her hair with the white ribbon and opened another small door in the room, snatching her cloak and mask as she went. The door revealed a small, metal slide, which she slid down as silently as possible. At the bottom, in the darkness, Chelsea put on her cloak and mask as she listened to the Phantom of the Opera terrorize the partygoers. Unless she was quite mistaken, the dear old opera ghost was picking on the foppish Brit, Danderson.

"Why the horrified stare, kind sir? I am to assume that I am not welcome here?"

She could hear the new manager's horrified squeak through the wall.

The female smirked. The fool had been stupid enough to think he could run the opera house his way, and it sounded like he was now looking at the blade of O.G.'s sword. She chose that moment to push the little door in the wall open and make her entrance.

"And why wouldn't he be welcome?" A voice rang across the silent ballroom. No one dared to gasp. The Phantom Angel had appeared at the top of the staircase. She walked down slowly, one petite, white-clad foot at a time. "Is this not a _masquerade?_"

The Phantom Angel joined the Opera Ghost on the landing, white and blue outfit contrasting strongly with the attire of Red Death. She curtseyed slightly. "Good evening, Monsieur Phantom."

He bowed amiably. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Angel."

They started down the staircase, each slow, deliberate step in perfect step with the other's. The Phantom Angel stared down any person bold enough to meet her eye.

"I trust you all remember me." The Opera Ghost spoke with a normal tone and volume of voice, but his voice carried all the way to the far reaches of the ballroom, and it seemed to be everywhere at once. "Although it has been many years since my last public appearance, I am quite confident that I left a lasting impression."

They had now reached the bottom of the staircase. The Phantom Angel stood boldly beside the Opera Ghost, her chin slightly lifted. The Phantom of the Opera surveyed his audience with a sweeping glance.

"However long it has been is irrelevant. My demands are still the same. Twenty thousand francs a month and Box 5, along with any other commands I may deliver. If you choose to ignore my requests…" an evil smile crossed his face, "…a disaster beyond your imagination will occur."

He drew his sword in a mock salute, still smirking. "I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant."

A loud explosion cut through the silence, and a puff of red smoke flew up around him. When the dust cleared, Red Death was gone. His accomplice, however, remained.

The Phantom Angel stepped forward. "If I were you," she addressed the crowd, "I would do what he tells you." Her gaze swept the crowd, lingering momentarily on the Spanish swordsman who was standing in the back. A small, mysterious smile appeared on her face. "But for now, enjoy your party. You are in no danger at the moment."

She crossed the floor to where a stunned waiter was holding a tray of champagne glasses. The Phantom Angel delicately lifted a glass off the tray. "_Merci, serveur._"

She held the glass aloft. "To the new year!" She took a sip and set it back on the tray. "Maestro, play a good dancing song!"

Monsieur Reyer stood there, staring dumbly at her.

The eyes behind the mask narrowed. "Maestro?"

Reyer got the picture. He swung around quickly and rapped out frantic orders to his orchestra. The song was slightly unorganized at first, but the instrumentalists soon fell into place. Many of the opera staff recognized it as a song from a previous opera.

The Phantom Angel smiled and bowed deeply. Then she started dancing the part of the ballet.

Everyone watched as her small feet tiptoed in time to the music. The girls from the ballet recognized the steps. They glanced at each other, grinning. However, they weren't prepared for the audience interaction.

The Angel paused in her dance and extended a hand toward one of the ballet rats.

Belle went very white under her mask, but the other two kittens pushed her forward. Smiling shyly at her dancing partner, she fell into step with the music. Although she was trying to dance a ballet in heels, she remembered the steps very well and was able to make it look good. The Phantom Angel invited the other girls, a few at a time, until the entire corps de ballet was dancing, Madame and Mademoiselle Giry included.

The Phantom Angel slipped through the crowd. She resurfaced on the dance floor a moment later with a terrified Monsieur Andre, who was dressed as a fish. She waltzed around with him as best as she could for a while (he wasn't exactly participating) and then slipped his hand into the hand of the lady standing nearest to her. She did the same with Monsieur Firmin, who was dressed as a goat, pairing him with a random woman.

Then she stood back and glared at them until they started dancing. Pleased with her work, the Angel took the hand of the Vicomte de Chagny and led him to a rather obese countess. As he tried to hide his mortification, she winked and clapped him on the shoulder.

His wife, Christine, laughed out loud. She received several shocked stares, but took no heed of them. She followed the Angel's example and led Slovakson, the Russian leading tenor, to the cleared space, and waltzed with him.

The Angel smiled at the crowd and held up three fingers. She put one down…and then another…

The entire ballroom came to life. Everyone started dancing. The Angel weaved in between the dancing couples, dragging behind her the ones who had chosen not to dance and pairing them up with unsuspecting waiters. People soon lost track of her. They were distracted by laughing at the unfortunate souls who had ended up with partners other than their dates.

Soon the song came to an end, and the unlucky dancers rushed around to find their dates. Not knowing if the Phantom Angel was still watching them, they started dancing again.

"Excusez moi, mademoiselle." Chelsea tapped the shoulder of a young waitress. "I was wondering if I might have my date back."

The girl pretended to be disappointed. "Aw, I was hoping you might not come back." She smiled. "Have a nice evening, mademoiselle, monsieur." She slipped through the crowd and Chelsea rejoined James in the dance.

"So is that a real sword you've got there?" she asked idly.

James looked affronted. "Of course it is! Do you seriously believe I would show up at the Opera Populaire's New Year's Masquerade with a pretend sword? I am insulted."

"Oh, don't be." Chelsea couldn't help but notice a nearby couple giving them a dirty stare.

"Don't mind them," James whispered in her ear. "They've been watching me like that all evening. They just believe the rubbish from the newspaper."

Chelsea groaned inwardly. What had happened to "give it a week and it'll blow over?" Oh, well. If those gullible people wanted to have a bad time, that was their problem. She wasn't going to let them ruin the ball for her.

"Do want some champagne?" she asked James. "It's very good."

"Is that what the Phantom Angel thinks?" James whispered, smirking.

Chelsea grinned. "Yes, that's what the Phantom Angel thinks. Let's go get some."

They made their way to the refreshments table and both got a glass of champagne. They toasted the new year and gulped it down. Then, as Chelsea decided she liked the champagne too much to let some rude aristocrat get it, she snatched another glass and toasted the ball. Then she toasted James. And then the waiters. And then the floor. And then she toasted toast itself.

James pulled her seventh glass out of her hand. "I think you've had enough of that, love."

Chelsea giggled, the world swaying before her eyes. "Oh, don't call me that! You'll make me blush!"

Messieurs Firmin and Andre approached the table. "Good evening, Monsieur Saxone, Mademoiselle Destler," Firmin greeted them happily.

"Good evening, sirs," James said in return. "This is quite a night. I'm impressed."

Andre shrugged. "Well, one does one's best," he said humbly.

Chelsea grabbed another glass of champagne while James wasn't looking. "Here's to us!" she said a little too loudly. "The toasts of all the city!"

"Does this sound a little familiar to you?" Firmin muttered to Andre.

The wizard and witch who were really Raoul and Christine de Chagny approached the little group.

"Hello, everybody!" Christine greeted them. "How are you all tonight? Chelsea, dear, are you all right? You look a little red in the face." She examined Chelsea closely, laying a hand on her forehead.

James cleared his throat. "Um, she's just hot," he improvised. "We've been dancing a lot, and I imagine she must be stifling under all that clothing…" Chelsea hiccupped, defeating his purpose.

Christine was unconvinced. "Well, how very considerate of you to think of her that way," she said. "Not all men do that, you know." She shot a glance at her husband, who immediately looked away. Christine tried to elbow him inconspicuously. He glared at her as if to say, "What?" and she sent him a look that said, "Say something!"

The Vicomte shuffled his feet, looking around for inspiration. "Sooooo… Are you thinking about getting back into the higher roles of the upcoming performances, mademoiselle?"

Chelsea grinned. "That sounds like fun. I reckon life would be lovely as the star of an opera. I've never been the star, you know."

"What about _Island_?" Raoul asked, an eyebrow raised.

James cut in. "You're very funny, Chelsea, very sarcastic." He searched for something to say. "Yes, well, you did say you wanted to dance until your feet fell off, Chelsea, so we'd better get going." He shot an apologetic look at the manager, the Vicomte, and his wife. "Happy New Year." He wrenched another glass of champagne from Chelsea's grasp and pulled her away from the table.

"I don't really feel like dancing, James," Chelsea mumbled, her voice slightly slurred.

"I should think not," James muttered. "It seems an unsafe activity at the moment." He glanced at the large clock. "Thirty minutes until midnight, Chels. Just hang on thirty minutes."

At that precise moment, Chelsea was surrounded by a group of young, twittering girls who were, apparently, all her biggest fan. They ignored James, who was at some point discovered by his own fan girls, and had to dash away before they could tackle him.

Chelsea now regretted drinking all that champagne. The world was moving before her eyes, and she was incredibly dizzy. She had a pounding headache, and everything had stopped being funny. The girls' voices seemed to melt into one blob of high-pitched, irritating noise.

People started counting down. "Ten! Nine! Eight!"

Chelsea forgot which number came after eight. Was it six? Or maybe four? What about ten? Oh, no, they had already said ten, that couldn't be it. Apparently, seven came after eight. But she had thought seven came after six… Oh, bloody alcohol.

"Five! Four! Three! Two! One! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

One could barely hear the bonging of the clock as the ballroom screamed with delight. And it wasn't just the people in the ballroom. All over Paris, people were leaping from their seats, shouting and singing to welcome in the new year. Chelsea felt like her head was going to split open.

What was the new year anyway? Was it 1902? 1992? 1776? Ugh, stupid, stupid champagne!

To Chelsea's horror, people started pushing champagne into her hands. She drank down the first few glasses, thinking that would make them go away, but more of her fans showed up and forced it down her throat, laughing happily. Chelsea started feeling seriously sick.

"No! No more! I absolutely refuse!" But her attempts at resisting were futile. Did they have to chatter so loudly?

Chelsea barely registered James' presence. He was shaking her, but nothing was getting through the thick fog that enveloped her brain. Oh, her brain, it hurt!

_Stop the insanity,_ Chelsea thought desperately. _Please, God, kill me now!_

The world went black. She fell backwards onto the cold stone floor and passed out.

---

"Ugh." Chelsea opened her bleary eyes and immediately wished she hadn't. Was it humanly possible to have this painful of a headache?

"Good morning, Chelsea."

Ohhhh, not good. Chelsea tried smiling at her father, who was leaning over her, but it hurt too much so she stopped. "Um…good morning. Happy New Year."

"It seems you had quite a party last night," Erik said quietly, his face expressionless. Chelsea hated that look. It was impossible to tell if he was angry or not. Wait, who was she kidding? Of course he was angry!

"I didn't mean to," she mumbled, not meeting her father's eye. "Well, it was my fault at first, but then they attacked me!"

She swore she saw Erik roll his eyes. "Madame and Mademoiselle Giry brought you home. You ought to thank them when you get the chance."

"Okay, I'll do that." Chelsea closed her eyes for a moment.

"How do you feel?"

"You don't want to know," Chelsea insisted.

Erik sighed heavily and got to his feet to leave the room. "I certainly hope you'll be more responsible in the future."

"I'm sorry," Chelsea mumbled, feeling ashamed of herself.

Erik turned back to her, a glint in his eye. "Don't apologize to me; apologize to your body. I'm not the one with the monstrous hangover."

He shut the door behind him. The headache throbbed particularly painfully, as if to remind Chelsea that it was still there. She groaned. "Why did the champagne have to be so damn good?"

---

One, two, step, step. One, two, hop, hop. Point your toes, pirouette… oh, for crying out loud. What came next?

Luckily for Chelsea, the rest of the ballet had forgotten as well. It was a difficult routine that Meg was trying to teach them, not helped by her bad mood. It seemed that Madame Giry was hovering over her daughter's shoulder, pointing out little details and things that Meg could have done better. It would have irritated anyone, and Meg just happened to be a control lover.

"That's all right, ladies," Meg called in an exasperated tone. "Here, I'll show it to you again."

"Make sure you pay attention this time!" Madame Giry reminded them.

Meg whirled around. "I've got it, mother!" she yelled. "They aren't paying you anymore, so please stop telling my ballet what to do!" She frowned for a moment. "Why don't you go see if you can teach the ballerinas-in-training something, if you're feeling so keen to teach."

Madame Giry looked as though she were about to retaliate, but instead turned and walked away.

Meg massaged her forehead for a moment. "I want to apologize to all of you for this mess," she said at last. "I am very proud of your quick learning, but we're running out of time. This production has its opening night in a few weeks, and we're still learning this last routine. I need you to work hard. Can you do that?"

"I can do it if you let me have a break first," Chelsea spoke out, rubbing her sore feet. A few giggles met her reply.

Meg threw her hands in the air. "Fine, go have a break! You have ten minutes, and come back ready to work hard. Do all of us a favor and don't damage your costumes."

Chelsea and Belle ducked behind the curtains and slipped through the stagehands that were preparing the scenery backstage.

"Did I tell you how much I hate these costumes?" a disgruntled Chelsea asked an equally disgruntled Belle.

"Once or twice," Belle said. "I hate them, too. This grass skirt is itchy, and I feel like I'm not wearing anything on top!"

"I agree," Chelsea said mournfully, hiking up the thin strip of fabric that she wore instead of a suitable top. "One of these days somebody has got to tell the costume makers that we don't like dressing like…you know, _those_ people."

"Funny, I thought you were one of those people."

"Don't start with me, Mahler!" Chelsea shouted at the ballet rat who pushed past them. "If anyone around here's a prostitute, then it's most definitely you!"

"Leave it, Chelsea," Belle sighed as they watched the evil ballerina retreat into the dressing room.

"Hello, girls." James jumped down from a ladder and joined them. He eyed their new costumes with curiosity. "Are you actually wearing something under those grass skirts?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Chelsea said loftily. "Anyway, my feet hurt."

"Mine don't hurt," Belle told her. "They _ache_." Her face twisted up in a grimace of pain. "Oh, the poor feet that dutifully carry me where I need to go. Covered in blisters, tired from overuse. It's the fault of the evil empress, forcing us to work…no, _slave_ on the stage for hours on end, all for the prospect of entertainment! She expects…" She trailed off as Chelsea slapped James' hand away from her skirt.

"Okay, I'm leaving." Belle went off in search of ballet rats who didn't act like lovesick poodles. "You go do your lovey-dovey thing. Get it out of your system so I don't have to be tortured later!"

"Poor Belle," Chelsea murmured sympathetically. "She just doesn't understand."

James wrapped his arms around Chelsea's bare middle. "No, she doesn't," he whispered, his voice muffled by her hair. "And as much as I would like to stay here, I have to go help set up the backdrops."

Chelsea groaned in protest. "Do you really have to?"

"Yes, I do," James chuckled. "But we'll see each other later, right?"

"Hello, Chelsea! Hello, James!"

Chelsea looked down at the two smallest ballerinas-in-training and groaned inwardly. She pulled away from James to face them properly. "Mitsy, Litsy, aren't you supposed to be in ballet class with Madame Giry?"

They looked at each other guiltily. "Well, yes," Litsy said quietly, "but we didn't want to dance today."

"Well, you can't stay here," Chelsea told them. "We're trying to rehearse."

Their faces brightened. "Oh, no! We won't disturb you! We'll be as quiet as mice!"

Chelsea couldn't help rolling her eyes. "Well, if you aren't quiet, Meg might end up tying you to the catwalks for the Opera Ghost to get." She straightened up and walked away without a word, pulling James along with her. To her dismay, the little girls followed her, chattering non-stop.

"Well, aren't they cute?" James muttered devilishly in her ear.

"They are _not_ cute," Chelsea insisted, hissing in his ear. "They are so annoying, they don't have any regard for authority or the rules, and every time they enter a room that I'm in I feel like I have to baby-sit them!"

They emerged on the stage. Mitsy and Litsy squealed and ran over to investigate the new equipment.

"See? Nobody's supposed to get in the way of the stagehands while they're working on the backdrops, and they know that, but they're getting underfoot anyway!" Chelsea hissed at James. "It's infuriating! Mitsy, don't touch that lever!"

"Why? What does it do?" Mitsy asked, her hand an inch from it.

"I don't know, just don't touch it!" Chelsea practically yelled at her.

"James, what does it do?" Mitsy called.

"It just releases some of the hanging equipment," James told her. "Don't touch it, please."

"They're right, dear. You don't want to pull that," Christine de Chagny called as she walked toward Chelsea and James. "Aren't the little ballerinas in a training session?"

"They're supposed to be," Chelsea muttered darkly. "MITSY! I said don't touch!" Her fists curled up into fists. "I want to _strangle_ something, they just make me so mad!"

"Calm down, children will be children," Christine told her, patting her on the shoulder.

"Speaking of children," Chelsea said, forgetting her anger for a moment, "how is Aimèe?"

They had decided on Aimèe as the name for the baby Chelsea had found. She was staying, at the moment, at the de Chagny estate.

"She is doing very well," Christine told her proudly. "I've been speaking to some of my friends, and I think that one couple may want to adopt her."

Chelsea smiled. "Excellent. I would adopt her myself if I could. She's so sweet!"

"She's sweet in the daytime," Christine told her, "but she cries through the night."

Chelsea's eyes widened. "Is she okay? She's not sick or anything, is she?"

"Of course not, she's fine!" Christine assured her. "Newborn infants don't typically sleep all night. She just cries if she's hungry, she needs a new diaper, or if she just wants to make the rest of us miserable."

"Oh. Sorry," Chelsea giggled.

Christine shrugged. "She's really no trouble at all. My son Nicky absolutely loves her. He's always asking if he can hold her and everything."

"He's so cute!" Chelsea gushed. "I would love to see that. Just like I would love to take the rest of the day off, but I can't. I need to get back to rehearsal. I'll talk to you later."

Christine nodded and walked away.

"I have to go, too, Chelsea," James told her. "I'll see you after rehearsal."

They embraced briefly and then parted and went their separate ways. A moment later, a stagehand yelled, "Look out!"

Chelsea spun around too late. A large timber swung down and smacked the right side of her face. She fell to the ground, yelping in pain.

She felt her injured cheek tenderly. It didn't feel like anything was broken, but it hurt so much! Chelsea sat up slowly, and the first thing that caught her eye was a very shocked Mitsy, her little hand on the lever that everyone had told her not to touch. The lever had been pulled.

Mitsy scrambled over to Chelsea's side, her eyes wide with fear. "Chelsea, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, it wasn't my fault!"

No! Oh, no! She wasn't going to pull that little innocent angel trick! Chelsea flared with anger. It was as though she just snapped. She rose to her feet, holding one hand over her injured cheek.

"_Damn you!_" she screeched. "You little prying Pandora! You little demon!"

The little girl cowered under her wrath. "I just wanted to see-"

"Is this what you wanted to see?" Chelsea shrieked, pulling her hand away from her face to reveal her bloodied cheek. She replaced the hand with a hiss of pain. "Damn you, Mitsy! Is it too much to ask to just follow the rules _once?_ Then you won't almost kill anyone!"

The small ballerina stared at Chelsea in horror for a moment, and then raced away, screaming for Litsy.

Chelsea screamed in fury and kicked the timber that had nearly crushed her. A splitting pain erupted in her toe. At that moment she realized that everyone was staring at her in a horrified fascination. She turned and stomped away, not caring about her job, about Mitsy's feelings, only wallowing in anger and self-pity.

"Chelsea! Wait!"

Not wanting to talk to anyone, Chelsea sped up, running blindly through the backstage passages. Whoever was following her was certainly determined.

"Chelsea, please!"

She turned a sharp corner and flung herself into a small closet. There in the darkness she finally started to calm down. She leaned against the wall, breathing hard, and listened closely. Her cheek still stung like something she didn't care to name, and her hand felt wet when she pulled it away. Footsteps pounded past outside, and then everything was silent. Chelsea let out the breath she had been holding.

The door swung open abruptly. Chelsea jumped as she came face-to-face with Christine. The woman had a desperate look on her face, and she was breathing hard as though she had just run a long way, never mind how inappropriate it was.

"Christine-"

She held up a hand to cut her off. Christine seemed to be searching her face. "I don't know how I could have missed it before," she muttered to herself.

"Missed what?" Chelsea asked, confused.

Christine was shaking her head. "The same exact eyes. They even glow in the dark."

Alarm shot through Chelsea's brain. "What? I don't understand…"

"I've only ever seen anyone fly into a towering temper that fast…"

Chelsea waited for her to explain.

"You're his daughter, aren't you?"

"What?" Chelsea fought hard to keep her voice under control.

"You're his daughter!" Christine sounded slightly irritated now. "You're the Opera Ghost's daughter. Erik's daughter!"

"No!" Chelsea yelped, but her voice betrayed her. Christine lunged forward and grabbed Chelsea's left arm, turning it upward to reveal a small, familiar birthmark by her elbow.

Christine let Chelsea's arm drop. Chelsea couldn't help but take a step backward. "It _is_ you."

"Who? Please tell me, because I have no idea what you're talking about." This made absolutely no sense to Chelsea.

"You're Erik's daughter," Christine repeated, her eyes disbelieving. "You're… you're _my_ daughter…"

"_What?_" Chelsea took another step back. "No, that isn't possible! You're crazy! You're-"

Christine grabbed Chelsea's hands. "No! Please, Chelsea! It may seem improbable, but I swear, it's the truth!"

_What in the name of socks is going on?_ Chelsea just stared as Christine spoke again.

"I thought I had lost my daughter almost sixteen years ago." She touched Chelsea's cheek. "But you've been right under my nose the whole time."

She had to say something. "I'm sorry, but I really don't understand," Chelsea almost whispered.

Christine pulled her into a warm hug. "I don't suppose so. This is so very awkward."

Chelsea felt as though an anvil had fallen onto her head. She breathed in…

And there it was.

"The vanilla scent!" she gasped, pulling away from Christine. "You wear a vanilla-scented perfume! But where have I smelled it before?" She racked her brain, and realization flooded over her. "The bed…"

Of course! The swan bed that had once belonged to her mother had once smelled of vanilla, an unusual scent. That's where she had recognized it. She looked up into Christine's confused eyes.

Christine shook her head. "Chelsea, I need you to take me to Erik."

The question caught her off guard. "What?" She jumped a mile into the air.

"Take me to Erik," Christine said firmly. "I need to speak to him."

Chelsea shook her head frantically. "No, that's not a very good idea. He hates the thought of other people being in our home. And we're not really on the best terms at the moment," she added as an afterthought. It was true; she and Erik had had several disagreements lately.

"Regardless, it is urgent that I speak to him," Christine insisted. She looked at Chelsea with such sincerity in her eyes, such utter desperation…

Chelsea's backbone faltered. She swallowed. "Well, if you insist. I can't guarantee your safety, though." She exited the closet. "This way."

----------

A/N: It's PWEC Day!


	14. Conflict and Eavesdropping

Disclaimer: If I owned the Phantom of the Opera I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. I'd be writing authorfiction, and I assure you…the story would be much different then it currently is.

Chapter Thirteen

Chelsea stepped briskly through the dark passages that would lead to her home. "Meg is going to kill me for skipping out of rehearsal," she muttered to herself. "She doesn't typically understand the meaning of a crisis."

A loud shriek echoed behind her. Chelsea looked around to find Christine wrestling with a brass candelabra that had swung around and pinned her against the wall.

Chelsea shook her head hopelessly. "I told you not to step on the big tiles." She pressed the special brick in the wall, and the candelabra swung back into place. The candles were extinguished, however.

"Oh no…" Christine sounded very panicky. "Chelsea, where are you? I can't see!"

Chelsea sighed. "I'm right here, Christine. Stay where you are." She stepped around the tile that triggered the trap and grabbed Christine's hand. "Just walk with me."

Christine was a nervous wreck. Her eyes darted around, not seeing anything. "Can you see in the dark?"

"Yes. But even if I couldn't, I know this place like the back of my hand," Chelsea told her. "There's not a single thing I don't know about these passageways." She paused as the hallway opened up into a large, dark open space and the ground dropped away steeply. She tapped her chin with a finger.

"Well, it's been a few weeks since I've come this way, but I can't say I remember a trench being here..."

A shallow trench, about three feet deep, blocked their path. Water was trickling slowly through it. The trench stretched on in both directions as far as Chelsea could see, and was about five feet across.

Chelsea scratched her chin. "So this is where that father of mine disappears to all the time. And he had me thinking that he was actually doing something worthwhile." She could tell Christine was confused by this by the way she didn't answer and by the baffled look on her face. After a moment she spoke.

"Erik…digs holes…in his free time?"

Chelsea shrugged. "He's probably planning to build some architecturally brilliant bridge or something we don't need." She sized up the distance across the trench. "Stay here for a moment."

She backed up a few paces, ran forward, and leaped over the ditch like the ballerina she was.

"Chelsea!" Chelsea heard Christine's panicked scream. "Where did you go?"

Chelsea couldn't resist rolling her eyes. "Just stay put, Christine. It's all right, I'm just over here. Don't move… there might be rats hanging about."

"_Rats?_"

"It was a joke!" Chelsea squinted around until she found what she was looking for- a large pile of timber, next to a larger pile of stone. Surely Erik wouldn't miss one little beam. She snatched up a long beam and dragged it back to the ditch, where she laid it across like a bridge.

Without being told to, Christine quickly crossed the narrow beam as nimbly as if she were a cat. As soon as she got to the other side, she clutched Chelsea's arm tightly. Chelsea wondered if she would hold on like that for the rest of the time she was down there. She definitely predicted the loss of circulation to her arm.

Eventually, they reached the house across the lake. Chelsea thankfully jumped out of the gondola. Christine had spent the entire boat ride worrying out loud about alligators and water rats. She was now sitting in the boat as though she expected someone to help her out. Chelsea was content to just let her stay there.

She was about to have a bigger problem on her hands.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her muscles tensed. Chelsea looked around warily, knowing that Erik was lurking around somewhere and that he wasn't happy. Then, in a furious snarl that seemed to come from everywhere at once, the Phantom of the Opera made his presence known.

"How many times have I told you _not_ to bring people down here?"

Erik jumped down out of the air and slapped Chelsea hard across her cheek…the injured one.

Chelsea howled and jumped back, a hand coming up to cover her face. Immediately Erik was prying it away, having felt the blood come off on his hand. "What did you do to yourself?" he snarled, eyes blazing as he surveyed the damage.

Chelsea wormed away from him. "Don't touch it! It hurts!" She realized how childish this sounded coming from a fifteen-year-old, but she didn't particularly care. "I didn't do anything," she whined. "The world is against me today! My feet have blisters, my cheek is throbbing, you just scared the living daylights-"

"I don't care, Chelsea!" Erik interrupted angrily. "I want to know why you brought…_her_ down here!"

"Erik, stop yelling at her!" Christine had managed to get out of the boat on her own. "You're only making things worse."

"You stay out of this!" Erik bellowed, pointing a long, gloved finger at her. "If it wasn't for you we wouldn't even be in this mess right now!"

"Excuse me?" Christine looked outraged.

"Would somebody _please_ tell me what's going on?" Chelsea begged.

"It would be best if you maintained your silence at the moment," Erik said through gritted teeth.

Chelsea took a step back, resisting the urge to put her hand at the level of her eye. "But I'm so confused! I feel like you two have some conspiracy against me and-"

"There's no conspiracy, honey," Christine said, her angry eyes still on Erik. "I can't believe you never told her, Erik."

"You aren't exactly in a position to be saying things like that," Erik informed her, fingers clenching.

"I'm saying them anyway." Christine met his gaze defiantly. Not a wise move, in Chelsea's opinion. "We need to talk."

Erik glared at her for a long time. Chelsea's eyes went from Erik to Christine to Erik and back again as nobody spoke.

Finally, Erik turned to Chelsea. "Chelsea…bed."

Chelsea's jaw dropped open. "_What?_"

"You heard me."

"But that's not fair!" Chelsea all but screamed.

Erik's eyes flashed. "Life isn't fair. Now go."

"No!" Chelsea protested. "I deserve to know what's going on! And it's not even five o' clock yet!"

Erik leaned forward until his nose was three inches from his daughter's. He uttered a single word. "_Bed._"

Chelsea shrieked in frustration, stomping her feet in a typical teenage temper tantrum. She swung around and stormed off to her bedroom, hissing obscenities, not only her native French, but also in English, Spanish, Greek, and Latin.

"I can hear you, Chelsea."

Chelsea spun around, eyes brimming with tears. "I know you can!" She stomped into her bedroom and slammed the door. Then she knelt down and put her ear against the keyhole.

"Get away from the keyhole!"

Chelsea sat up momentarily. "I'm not at the keyhole!" Then she rested her ear once more against the cold metal. The voices of the two people outside were muffled, but still discernable.

"How could you not have told her?" Christine was saying. "How could you have let her go fifteen years of her life without knowing?"

"I rather thought that I could prevent her from becoming as shallow and foppish as you became when you married into the noble French aristocratic society," Erik said icily. "Whether I succeeded or not remains to be seen, but in any case, why would I mention you in my everyday life? You ceased to be part of my life many years ago, in case you had forgotten."

Chelsea pressed her ear harder against the keyhole, still extremely puzzled by the situation.

"But still… You let her grow up without ever knowing who her mother is?" Christine was obviously outraged. "I can just imagine the assumptions she must have made all these years! What I want to know is how she managed to survive fifteen years living down here with a father like you. What other secrets are you keeping from her?"

Chelsea cringed. Erik was silent, which could not have been good. She now also wanted to know what else he was hiding from her, but she had enough sense not to ask. Not the way Christine did, anyway. Was she trying to get killed?

"That is not your business, little prima donna." When Erik at last spoke, his voice was as cold as ice, burned like fire, was as silent as the grave, but all the same sent shivers down Chelsea's spine. She had never heard him speak this way. _Never_.

"I should think that it is," Christine argued, trying to sound bold but quailing obviously. "If she's nearly sixteen and she's never known who her mother is, something's wrong. I don't know what you were thinking, but I care about the child's wellbeing, and-"

"If you really cared about her wellbeing, why did you abandon her?"

Chelsea froze.

Erik continued. "If you cared, why did you abandon her at the time she needed you the most? Why did you leave her here, of all places? Surely you knew that a place like this could mean certain death to a sick infant?"

Fingers tightening around the doorknob, Chelsea's heart pounded pitilessly against her ribcage as Christine stammered outside.

"I-I thought…but you…you w-would…"

"I would what?" Erik interrupted mockingly. "Sweep her up into my arms and welcome her into my heart? Take her, an infant, into my home? That's not exactly in my character, Christine. You of all people should know that." Christine didn't say anything, and he continued. "It just so happened that I was feeling benevolent that day. You see, Chelsea and I have something in common. Do you know what that is?"

The fact that they were both extremely cryptic and terribly-tempered at times would've been Chelsea's first guess, but she supposed that was irrelevant. Christine stayed silent.

"We're both outcasts." Erik's voice dropped to a whisper. "I was shunned by the world because of the monstrosity that is my face. The girl I discovered down here almost sixteen years ago was abandoned by you…why? Out of fear?"

"No…" Christine didn't sound convincing.

Erik snorted. Chelsea heard a rustling of fabric, and she pictured the Opera Ghost turning on his heel and stalking away. "Why did you come down here, Christine? I don't suppose bringing up the past was your intention."

Suddenly, Christine broke down. "Erik, I didn't mean to!" she screamed. "She was dying, and I was so frightened! Everyone was so suspicious! She was only a few days old and on the verge of death, and I just couldn't bear to watch her die! There was nothing else I could do, no one I could turn to- it was my last resort!"

Chelsea made no sense of this. Was Christine talking about _her?_ Once again, her heart started beating rapidly. Did she almost die when she was a baby? Of course not- that was ridiculous! Or was it?

No, it was definitely ridiculous. Chelsea shook her head, trying to sort all this out. There was something going on here, something that Erik didn't want her to know about. She couldn't help but feel that her father had gone mad. Christine wasn't the kind of person who would abandon a baby in a place like this. But… hadn't she just confessed to it?

"I am led to one conclusion." Erik's voice was steely. "I think you left her here because you had something to hide. You had made a terrible mistake, going off and betraying your own fiancé that way. Soon, the entire aristocratic population of Paris would know that you had a daughter who looked nothing at all like her supposed father. You got scared and decided that it would be best to get rid of the problem before it could get any worse, and then, when she got sick, you had the perfect excuse."

"Erik, _no!_ That's not…You're not… That's…"

Icy claws grabbed Chelsea's heart in a grip of death. No… It couldn't be!

And yet it was.

Chelsea opened the door and slipped out of it, trying to stem the flow of tears from her eyes. Without making a single sound to alert the conflicting adults on the lakeshore, she slipped down the hallway and into a secret passageway.

With tears flowing from her eyes and strangled sobs emitting from her throat, Chelsea blindly made her way through the passages of the opera house, tripping up stairs, blundering up ladders... If she was seen, she didn't know and honestly didn't care. She kept running, nearly hyperventilating with the combined efforts of panting and sobbing. Somehow she wound up on the roof, just below a large statue of a rearing horse.

Sniffling, she climbed onto the horse's back and sat there, sobbing silently. Her mind whirled in confusion and desperation, and she couldn't shake off the feeling that she had been abandoned.

Well, perhaps that was because she _had_ been abandoned. Abandoned by one of the most important people in her life. Left to die at such an early age… Was it really possible?

For hours she sat there, undisturbed, not caring if people missed her. She had no cloak or coat of any kind, and the cold seeped into her like freezing water. Chelsea watched as her fingers turned blue and felt them go numb. She felt the tears on her face freeze. She shivered as the cold cut into her mercilessly. But she just didn't care. She felt so lost, so hopeless, so… _unloved._

The dark had long since come over Paris, cloaking the city in a velvet night sky, studded with stars. Chelsea slid clumsily down from the statue, slipping in a patch of lingering snow. She stood up straight and tall, despite the fact that she could barely feel her nose. She wouldn't stand for this. She couldn't.

She had to know the truth. She had to know what had really happened all those years ago.

With that in mind, Chelsea strode purposefully through the opera house, deaf to the calls of her peers. She paused only when she had reached the door to the flat in the musty hallway. Her father had neglected to tell her the truth about her parentage. She could hardly go to Christine at the moment. At this point in her crisis, she couldn't let herself walk away without clearing the frustration and confusion that had been building since… Well, it had been brewing within her for years. Too many years.

Chelsea rapped on the door with her numb knuckles, which were cracked and bleeding from exposure to the cold.

The door was opened by a tired-looking Meg Giry, who was surprised to see Chelsea standing there. "Chelsea, what happened? You and Christine both disappeared and nobody-" she trailed off, shocked at the state that the girl in front of her was in. "Chelsea, what's wrong?" she asked, concern in her blue eyes.

Chelsea tried to restrain the shakiness in her voice. "Meg, my world just got turned upside down," she said as strongly as possible. "I have no idea what is happening. I overheard a conversation, and…" She trailed off, her voice cracking and her eyes welling up with tears.

Meg's eyes grew wide, her lips pressed firmly together, but she said nothing.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Chelsea continued. "Neither of my parents could tell me what I desired to know. Therefore, I have come to the only person who can." She looked at the ballet mistress with pleading eyes. "Meg, please tell me what happened between Christine and Erik."

The blonde woman stood silently, apprehension and fear, coupled with concern, plainly spelled out in her eyes. Finally she nodded, opening her door. "Come in. I'll tell you what I can."

---

A/N: Ahaha. Yes, well...hello. Before you say anything or start throwing tomatoes, I am deeply ashamed of the fact that I haven't updated either of my phics since last summer. I really don't know what happened there. All I know is that it started with computer problems and being busy with school and somehow ended up with it being...um...(counts on fingers) ...over six months since I've updated. Wow. Half a year.

I recently recieved a personal message from a reader that pulled me out of my slump. For those of you who like this story and haven't forgotten about me completely, we can all thank Smidgie for that. Upon looking at my stats for the first time in months, I found that several people had reviewed since I've been gone. I had no idea... The website didn't email me or anything. Otherwise, I probably would have updated sooner (yeah, right). Sorry, friends. I typically reply to reviews, but...blegh. But now it's 9:49 at night, and, even though I'll be getting up at three for a cross-country trip, I'm updating.

I am back. And I **will** finish this phic.


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